


When It Alteration Finds

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Dom/sub, Forced Prostitution, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire were casual lovers when Enjolras disappeared. Two years later,  Grantaire finds him again in dire circumstances. Can he find a way to bring back the man he secretly adored, or to love the new, changed Enjolras?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 129
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just, like, a combination of all of my favorite self-indulgent tropes: D/s, friends with benefits and also secret pining, trans Enjolras, canon era, slave fic, hurt/comfort.
> 
> Has all the warnings you might expect from a fic of this nature (non-con referenced but not onscreen) as well as R's alcohol problem and persistent misgendering of Enjolras (from the bad guys). 
> 
> Would love to know what you think!

Since Enjolras’ disappearance—and frankly, for some time before that—Grantaire has not had any intimate company. Frankly, he has little interest in it. For all his jests of rapacious lust, since first he laid eyes on Enjolras, he’s wanted no one else, man nor woman. 

That feeling had only deepened when, shortly before Enjolras’ disappearance, he had made the baffling decision to take Grantaire to his bed a scant handful of times. (Well, not so much his bed as the alleyway behind the Musain, and the privy, and up against the wall of his apartment). They had not been lovers, far from it. Enjolras had been rough with him, demanding, sometimes cruel, and Grantaire had loved every second of it even as he’d longed for more. He’d never dared to ask Enjolras, and had tried not to ask himself, why Enjolras had chosen him. 

Perhaps he knew that Grantaire was so senselessly devoted to him that he could be trusted to keep the secrets that lay beneath Enjolras’ waistcoats and cravats. When Enjolras had first, with a tentativeness that frightened Grantaire with how unlike him it was, let down his breeches to reveal himself, he had sworn Grantaire to secrecy. “I could never tell that which my friend wished me to keep secret,” Grantaire had said, and what he had meant was, “I would die before I would betray you.” 

Perhaps Enjolras had understood that. Certainly he had helped himself to Grantaire’s body as though he knew the complete ownership he had over Grantaire’s soul.

It had been nothing like love between them. Or, rather, the love had come only from Grantaire, pouring out of him like wine from an uncorked bottle. Enjolras had simply taken what was convenient, though with Grantaire’s consent and urging too. But, whatever it was, it had been the most precious thing in Grantaire’s life, and still was. He has no desire to taint that memory with the touch of another. For the two years since Enjolras last graced their company, he has known no other lover, not even for a single night. He can’t imagine wanting someone else, not when he has the memory of Enjolras perfect in his mind. He can cling to that until he dies, and those memories will keep him warm enough to chase away the chill of any winter’s night. 

He’s drunk, though. Exceedingly, stinkingly drunk, even by his own unlovely standards. And viciously lonely. He’s been in bad spirits and worse company all night, as suits his mood. He’s spent little time with the Amis de l’Abaissé lately. Lesgle and Joly he still sees, of course. They are dear friends of many years. But he no longer has the heart to go to those meetings and hear the dream of the better world be spun out in front of the adoring crowd—not when the one thing that made him believe in the possibility of that better world is gone forever.

So he’s out drinking with some of the worse class of ruffians in the Patron-Minette. They moved from wine at a café, to harder liquors swapped out of a bottle on the street, to stumbling, well after midnight, into an inn where Montparnasse swears he knows the owner well that they can drink—and enjoy other pleasures—for free. 

Well, not really an inn. Really, a brothel. Grantaire is not so naive that he does not realize that much, even though he had never visited one before, for all he used to boast of his many conquests. His face is unlovely, but he has never wanted for companionship so intensely that he was willing to pay for it. Nor does he particularly relish the idea of participating in the degradation of some unfortunate who is scrambling to pay off her debtors or support her innocent child.

All those thoughts feel dangerously far away, though, as Montparnasse leads him through the door. His head is spinning from the liquor, and from the general pleasures of a night of revelry. He’s had too much of both, and too little to keep him sober.

He used to try to set his drink aside for Enjolras’s sake, but Enjolras is gone. What is left for Grantaire to live for, then, besides the pleasures of the body? Whatever higher things he might once have longed for are gone with Enjolras. 

They are greeted at the door by a red-faced and portly man, whom Montparnasse greets with a grin and a slap on the back. “My host! Thenardier, you must meet R. He’s a real laugh.”

Grantaire smiles at the man. He remembers he’s supposed to, that part of the role he is playing here—and throughout his life—is the gracious clown, the life of every party. It’s been a long time since that smile reached as far as his eyes, though. No one notices.

“Any friend of ‘Parnasse is a friend of mine. What can I get you?”

Grantaire gratefully accepts yet another drink. He’s starting to feel very unsteady on his feet now, which is exactly what he wanted. Maybe he’ll actually be able to sleep tonight. Sometimes, if he drinks enough, he’s able to pass out. He isn’t kept awake, tormented by the memories of the love he had, and lost. The fear that it might have been because of him. The terror that, wherever Enjolras is, he’s suffering, or even… no, he can’t think that last thing. He’ll fall apart if he even imagines it. A world without Enjolras is a world not worth living in. A world that has no right to exist at alll. 

“You look glum, my friend,” Montparnasse is saying. “How can you be, with so many lovely ladies around?”

The main room of the ‘inn’ is indeed richly populated with young women. Some of them might indeed have been beauties once—it’s hard to tell, given their current state of misery. Most have little of their own hair left, having lost it in bouts of malnourishment. He sees more than a few rotted teeth, and nearly all their faces are pockmarked with the tell-tale symptoms of disease. They’re thin, most of them, with sunken hollows where their breasts might once have been, and their eyes are clouded over with an expression Grantaire knows all too well.

It is the sorrow that lies on the other end of grief. Some say that what waits there is acceptance for the changes that have come to pass, but Grantaire knows it is not always so. These girls know it too, he can see it in their eyes. It is the simple truth of Grantaire’s life on the other side of love: it is despair. Despair, his constant companion. 

There certainly is an appalling amount of naked female flesh on display, though. It might once have stirred him, but no more. At least that’s one evil he’s grown out of, over time—he’s no longer the lecher he used to be. 

Maybe that’s why Enjolras had selected Grantaire for his experiments with matters of the flesh. He may have assumed Grantaire was so easily taken that he would readily lend himself to any depths of depravity. 

And maybe that’s why he’d left in disgust.

Grantaire tries to shake himself from that line of thinking. He knows too well what madness lies there, and he’s wretchedly drunk already. There’s no more comfort for him in the bottle tonight. He’ll just get weepy if he drinks more, and he doubts that the Patron-Minette would be a terrifically sympathetic audience to him sobbing over his lost, _male,_ lover. 

“I know a way to restore your cheer,” Montparnasse is saying and Grantaire tries hard to make himself focus through the haze of wine and grief. “I like it not, to see such a merry fellow brought low by sadness. It seems an ill omen to me, that one day I might not be contended with my collection of finery and could—God forbid!—find myself sensible to the gentler passions.”

Grantaire tries to manage a narrow smile at that, recognizing a jest when he hears one. “You are a better companion than I deserve, Montparnasse.” How sad it is that that is the truth! Once he had kept company with the best of men, scholars, philosophers, and revolutionaries. Now he barely merits the company of Paris’s most notorious rogue. At least Montparnasse is amiable—Grantaire no longer even has that to recommend him. 

“Nonsense. ’Twas you that paid for the night’s wine—I merely recompense you.”

Grantaire doesn’t even remember doing so, although it’s easy to believe that he would. When he’s in his jovial moods, and in the early phases of drunkenness, he quite likes to empty his purse for all and sundry. “Well, then, I thank you.”

“Thank me when you have seen. Host!”

Thenardier appears at Montparnasse’s elbow. “What can I do for you, friend of my house?”

Montparnasse smiles. He looks a little like Enjolras when he smiles, so fine is his face—and so distinct is the impression of cruelty on those well-carved features. “You recall a certain investment I advised you to make some time ago?”

“Ah, yes.” Thenardier smiles back. “The new girl.”

“You see, Grantaire, I told my friend Thenardier that it was a waste of his talents to have only one class of girl working his fine establishment. Some, sure enough, would be happy to trade a few francs for the company of such as these, wenches little better than what you might purchase on the street. But there exist a better class of gentlemen, sons of the old nobility and,” his smile turns to a grin, “Self-made men, like I myself. We prefer a more refined sort of pleasure. I advised him to make a certain purchase, and the acquisition—well, she may as well be carved of marble! For all the degradation of her profession, she has the beauty and innocence of an angel. The grace of a dancer! The passion of a muse! But I spend my breath idly until you have seen.”

“Such a wonder any man would be happy to see,” Grantaire says, knowing it is what is expected of him, and allows Montparnasse to lead him upstairs. This girl, the muse of Thenardier’s house, does not work the main room of the inn nor take her clients in whatever empty room she can find. She waits for her callers in a chamber of her own. The door is unmarked, and locked.

Thenardier unlocks the door with a heavy key and the door slides open. It is a simple chamber, but the furniture is all of markedly better quality than that which fills the shoddy main room. 

There are no windows, no decorations on the walls. There is a large, locked chest of drawers, and a bed. And on the bed, there is…

Grantaire knows at once, before he even sees his face. His legs are spread obscenely wide, revealing his most intimate parts, and his head is turned to the side, his long golden hair falling over his face, concealing his features. Grantaire is ashamed that he knows him just from that glimpse of his naked body. The long, lithe perfection of his bare legs. The sculpted perfection of his pale torso. The small, soft rises of his breasts, always so carefully hidden away behind bindings and layers of clothing before. The elegant curve of his chin. The perfect curls of his lovely hair, the one vanity he permitted himself. 

Of course, he does not look quite the same. There is a small ring of fading bruises along his neck, the marks of fingerprints being left there. There are a few scars wrapping along the side of Enjolras’ torso. And, between his legs, there is… reddened swelling, and streaks of blood, and other evidence of…

Grantaire’s stomach rebels. He forces himself to swallow, hard, as he sees him, for the first time in years.

_Enjolras._ He bites down hard on his lip so he won’t say the name of the man he would gladly die for, as he looks down on him, naked, beaten, abused. As the first pure feeling he has known in all that time, the warmth of his love, lights up his heart once again.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire’s heart is racing, and his hands are shaking. His stomach is sour, as though he might be sick. From far away, he hears the voices of the two other men, Montparnasse and Thenardier, talking to each other. They’re talking about Enjolras, he knows, though they keep referring to him as though he were a woman. That humiliation is cruel enough, but it pales in comparison to what has been done to Enjolras.

Even when he and Grantaire made love—or, to be more accurate, when Enjolras relieved certain carnal desires with Grantaire as an all-too-willing outlet—he was never vulnerable like this. Grantaire had only seen the perfection of his body in bits and pieces, an unbuttoned chemise, a lowered pair of breeches. Never his entire nudity, as glorious as a god’s, but unnatural because he hardly seems like Enjolras. He’s still and silent and unmoving, without any of the fire that Grantaire is used to. Of course, he must be afraid his captors will harm him. Grantaire can only hope he still trusts him not to do him any harm. 

Grantaire tries to force himself to make sense of what they’re saying through the haze of his thoughts and the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed earlier in the day. It isn’t easy. 

“Isn’t she something?” Montparnasse says. “I’ve enjoyed her companies many a time, but tonight she’s all yours, unless Thenardier has paying custom waiting.”

“No, no,” Thenardier defers. “Just don’t leave any marks on her. As you can see, we’ve had a few missteps in that regard recently. And before we bought her she was whipped bloody. A real shame. If she had remained unmarked, she would have been a consort for kings.”

Any hope that Grantaire might have briefly entertained about Enjolras’ consent here—a fantasy that perhaps he had simply tired of his abstemious republican life and run off to make a living on the pleasures of the flesh—disappears. Whipped bloody. He can see it too clearly, Enjolras’s pride and fiery nature making him spit insults at those who held power over him, the lash descending on the marble perfection of his skin…

“R? My friend, you seem… unmoved.”

Grantaire recognizes his cue to speak. Fiercely, he wishes he were sober. If he were sober, he could come up with something brilliant to say, something that might get Enjolras safely out of this situation. Then again if he had been sober he never would have ended up here in the first place, and then who knows what would have become of Enjolras? He should be grateful for his own failings. “How so?” He asks, to buy himself time to think.

A few options present themselves immediately. He could try to just take Enjolras and run. But he’s too drunk to be a very effective fighter, and Montparnasse, at least, is a formidable opponent. He doesn’t know how many others here might be willing to take up arms to defend their… investment. 

Montparnasse and Thenardier are trading crude jokes about Grantaire’s lack of an erection. He schools his face in an amused smile as he continues to plan.

He’s never cursed his own ugliness more. He’d gladly offer himself up in Enjolras’s place if there were any value in the trade, but there wouldn’t be. No doubt they’d scoff at such an offer. Especially since they’re passing Enjolras off as a woman, which necessarily appeals to a wider segment of customers. There’s no way they’d take Grantaire in trade. 

He could try to sneak Enjolras out of here in the dead of night, but that’s dangerous. Who knows what further harm might come to him if Grantaire leaves him in this place for even a second longer? 

The gendarmes won’t come, not for a prostitute—and so they will see Enjolras. It would be the worse if they knew who Enjolras was, too, a known republican and a danger to the state, let alone that he is a man who was born with a woman’s parts. 

The Amis likely would—if they would believe Grantaire’s telling. He files that away in his mind for later, as a backup. He could perhaps call for a messenger to come, saying he needed something from his quarters, and instead send word to their friends. But no doubt Enjolras, if Grantaire could ask him, would prefer not to be seen in this shameful wise by anyone he esteems. Bad enough that Grantaire himself has seen it.

So he can’t fight his way out, and he can’t bargain his way out, and he’s on his own. The only thing he can think of is that he’ll need to talk his way out of this. Which would be a lot easier if he were sober.

Fortunately, he is in a room with the most brilliant orator he has ever heard: Enjolras himself. And although he may not be able to speak for himself, perhaps he can help Grantaire find the words that will aid them both. 

There is only one plan that bears merit. He needs to talk to Enjolras, alone. And that means he has to convince these two that he means to take advantage of their… offer. 

So he laughs as Montparnasse wonders aloud if Grantaire has been impotent for long, or if it is merely that his cock is as ugly as the rest of him. “Nonsense,” he says. “I’m just not interested in your used goods.”

“Is that all?” Thenardier says. “Girl!”

Enjolras stirs slightly on the bed. It’s the first time he’s moved. 

Thenardier draws a handkerchief out of his pocket, spits in it, and tosses it at Enjolras, who doesn’t react. “Clean yourself up, whore.”

At the command, Enjolras moves—not to resist, but to obey. He takes the filthy cloth in one trembling hand and wipes it through the mess of blood and other things between his legs. 

Grantaire tears his eyes away from what Enjolras is doing and focuses back on his strategy. If he looks at what Enjolras is doing, at the harsh, almost vicious way he’s scrubbing at the raw and tender flesh of his most intimate parts, he won’t be able to keep himself together, and Enjolras needs him now. 

If he can get Enjolras alone, he can perhaps learn from him the extent of the guards placed upon him. He assumes they must be extensive, to prevent someone so bold as his angel from escape for so long. And from there, they can make a plan together—whether it is fighting their way out, or sending a message for help, or perhaps some trickery that might get Enjolras to freedom. 

No doubt Enjolras will despise Grantaire all the more after this, for having seen him in this moment of humiliation, though of course Grantaire could never esteem him less than utterly. Grantaire pushes that thought aside as unimportant, though. The only thing that matters now is getting Enjolras to safety. 

Which means he needs to play along. Hopefully Enjolras knows him well enough not to be in fear that Grantaire might actually ever do him harm, and won’t be further frightened by the role he is about to play.

By all the gods that have ever been worshipped, Grantaire wishes he weren’t so drunk. His head is spinning and he knows he’s not thinking as clearly as he could be. If he were sober…

Well, if he were sober he might curl up on the floor and weep for grief to see the one he loves brought so low, so perhaps it’s better that he isn’t. And, of course, a sober Grantaire would never have ended up here. God, his thoughts are going in circles. 

And all the circles end up in the same place. He knows he ought to feel fear, or grief, but there is no room for anything but selfish joy in his heart. Because Enjolras is alive. Enjolras is alive, and, if not exactly well, at least here in front of him, in one piece. 

Grantaire loves him so much. 

Enough to do whatever it takes.

“Can you let me alone with—with her?” It feels like sacrilege on his tongue to call Enjolras by the wrong pronoun. “I’m afraid I’m not used to performing for an audience.”

“Oh, but you make such a funny contrast,” Montparnasse teases. “The angel and the oaf.”

Grantaire hides a wince. Sensibility about his looks will not serve to help Enjolras at all in this moment, and the only thing that could matter now is making sure Enjolras is all right. So he forces a laugh. It comes out a little too harsh, but then Montparnasse has also been drinking all night, and he doesn’t seem to notice. “And yet we match in debauchery.”

“True enough.” Montparnasse is watching him, his eyes cold and clever. Grantaire always knew he was a dangerous man, but he didn’t realize the depths of cruelty until just now. There is a sadism there, a real desire to watch someone hurt. Fortunately, it seems to be more to watch Grantaire make a fool of himself with a pretty whore than it is to see Enjolras further injured. And Thenardier’s eyes are clouded with something quite different: greed, pure and unadulterated. He only cares what profit Montparnasse brings to his house, both with his own free-spending and with the… acquisition, of Enjolras.

Grantaire wonders what men pay to rape him. Then he wonders if he’ll be able to track down every man who has taken advantage of his beloved and kill them all. Then he forces those thoughts away. Because they aren’t helping. “I don’t think you want to see this. Believe me, the show is not as appealing as you imagine.”

Montparnasse just looks at him. Grantaire forces himself to return that cold, steady gaze, and even to smile.

“I’ll tell you what,” he offers. “When I’m finished, I shall buy us all some drinks to celebrate my conquest—and I shall spare no detail in the telling of it.”

“If indeed you are capable of conquest,” Montparnasse retorts, with a pointed glance toward the still-flat front of Grantaire’s trousers.

There is simply no way that Grantaire can rouse himself to hardness under these circumstances. Even without the alcohol, the fact that Enjolras is lying here, vulnerable and no doubt afraid, would make it impossible. He must show with false words the lie his body is unable to tell for him—that he intends to hurt Enjolras. So he fixes the fake smile to his face and says, “You lack imagination, my friend, if you believe the only thing to do with a pretty girl is stick one’s cock in her and have done as quickly as possible. I aim to take my time—and perhaps then you will see why, though indeed my face has little to recommend it, none of my mistresses have ever had cause to complain.”

That earns him a guffaw—not from Montparnasse, but from Thenardier. “Well said, well said. Montparnasse, I like this friend of yours.”

Montparnasse lifts an eyebrow. “Indeed. Well, Thenardier. I suppose we can find some business to discuss while Grantaire enjoys himself.”

“She’s a good wench,” Thenardier says. “Very obedient—she ought to be, after the training she got! Do as you please, only try to leave her the way you found her.”

“You have my word of honor,” Grantaire makes himself say.

“Enjoy yourself,” Montparnasse says, with one final leer. Grantaire winks at him, and then the two other men are gone, and Grantaire is alone with Enjolras for the first time in two long, miserable, and lonely years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for consistent persistent misgendering, physical abuse and torture

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say, a rare experience for him—though not, perhaps, where Enjolras is concerned.

All he can do, stupidly, is breathe Enjolras’s name.

There is no response. Enjolras lies still and unmoving on the bed.

Something twists in Grantaire’s stomach—he is starting to suspect that worse has been done to Enjolrasthan he can imagine, that the damage his love has faced goes far beyond any physical damage.

“Enjolras, can you hear me?”

He hears Enjolras’s breath quicken slightly, so at least he knows that Enjolras is hearing and understanding him. That’s something, hereminds himself.

“I’m sorry, ange,” he says, not sure exactly what he’s apologizing for. For not having found Enjolras sooner? For not having turned the world upside down looking for him? For seeing him now, in this moment of humiliation? For everything Enjolras has suffered?

There is, once again, no answer from the man lying on the bed.

“I… I want to get you out of here,” Grantaire says, plainly. “To safety, or freedom, or… or whatever you please. Will you… Tell me if you want that to, please.”

At first, Enjolras stays as still and as silent as he had been before. Grantaire is beginning to worry that, not only will he not speak, but that he’s actually, for some reason that Grantaire doesn’t entirely know or understand, _unable_ to speak. That something is preventing him from being able to say what he desires. Or even that, somehow, he can no longer remember what he wants well enough to articulate it. But then Enjolras nods. It’s the slightest of all movements, but it’s unmistakeable. His face is still covered by his hair, but Grantaire doesn’t need more than that to know that there is at least some hope.

“Can you speak? Signal me, please, if you can.”

Enjolras shakes his head very slightly.

“Is… is something stopping you, physically?”

A tiny nod.

Grantaire’s stomach turns. “May I…”

Before he can say anything further, Enjolras opens his mouth as wide as he can. At once, Grantaire sees the contraption inside his mouth. There is an iron bar of metal laid across his tongue, holding it in place. The bar is welded to two thinner metal spires that sit back behind Enjolras’ teeth, keeping them open. The purpose of the device is nauseatingly obvious. With this thing in his mouth, Enjolras would not be able to make a coherent sound, to say a single word—but anyone who wished to would be able to force themselves into his mouth, and he would not be able to try to defend himself with his teeth. Enjolras’s mouth is deformed by the thing, red lines of blood rising where it presses into the tender flesh on the inside of his mouth. It must pain him constantly, and it will be a wonder if he escapes infection or some other illness.

Perhaps seeing the horror on Grantaire’s face, Enjolras freezes. He hides his fear well—no doubt he has had little choice but to learn to conceal it, and his expressive eyes are still hidden behind his golden hair—but Grantaire is watching him closely enough to recognize the flinch for what it is.

He forces himself to set aside the urge to panic. Admittedly, time is short, as he does not know how long he will have before Thenardier and Montparnasse grow suspicious, and further he is in a hurry to free Enjolras from discomfort as quickly as possible, but that does not excuse potential carelessness. He makes himself take a deep breath.

“You don’t wish me to remove it?”

Enjolras vocalizes for the first time—a terrible, strained and distorted noise. It comes out like “Nuhh—“

As soon as the sound has escaped his mouth, Enjolras flinches visibly.Grantaire wonders what he’s afraid of. Does he think he’ll be punished for speaking? Is he afraid that Grantaire will touch him? Are there consequences to this device being removed that Grantaire cannot even imagine?

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says at once, pulling his hand away. “I will never touch you without your consent. That is a promise I made you once, a long time ago—“ when Enjolras had commanded Grantaire to keep his hands above his head while he roughly brought him to a sobbing orgasm with his mouth, an image that feels so distant from this moment he can hardly believe it was the same two men that stood in that alleyway as are crouched in this brothel room— “And though the circumstances were almost laughably different, I am still a man of my word, Enjolras.”

Grantaire wishes he could see Enjolras’ face, to know how he is reacting to those words, but he cannot. He contents himself with knowing that he’s doing the right thing, backing away, not putting any more pressure on Enjolras.

“I just wish you could talk to me,” he says, quietly. “I… I wish I could know what you were thinking.” It’s selfish of him to say anything at all, he supposes. It would be better not to put so much pressure on Enjolras, who doesn’t need to be worrying about Grantaire’s feelings, of all things. “You’re so much more intelligent than I am. If only you could tell me how to get you out of here, I’m sure you could come up with a better plan than I can.”

Enjolras reacts to that, to Grantaire’s surprise. He changes position on the bed, just slightly, tossing his hair to one side so that, for the first time, Grantaire can see his face.

The sight of Enjolras takes his breath away, as it always does. He’s still the most beautiful man Grantaire has ever seen, as painfully irrelevant as that particular observation is at this moment in time. That’s true even though his beauty is marred—with red lipstick smeared over his mouth, kohl covering his eyelids, and a black bruise under one of his eyes, and, worst of all, a long scar tracing from the corner of his right eye all the way to his cheek.

It must have been a clumsy stray whip lash that caused it, unless the mutilation was intentional. _If she had remained unmarked, she would have been a consort for kings,_ Thenardier had said. And Grantaire was fool enough to think he referred only to the old scars on Enjolras’ back, not that his face—his perfect face—had been, perhaps deliberately, destroyed.

He wishes he knew what on earth Enjolras was trying to communicate to him in that moment. If he could just understand, if he could just talk to him for a second—but pushing on that point again will no doubt only frighten Enjolras again, and that he cannot bear.

But, horrible though it is, a plan begins to form in Grantaire’s mind. He honestly has absolutely no idea whatsoever whether or not it is going to work. There is every possibility that, like most plans he forms when he is drunk, it sounds like a much better idea than it actually is. But there’s only one person to test it out on. He clears his throat, and lets it out.

“If I… If I offered Thenardier money for you, do you think he would let me leave here with you?”

Enjolras looks up at him. He doesn’t quite meet Grantaire’s eyes, but Grantaire can tell that he’s understood what he was meant to understand.

Grantaire forces himself not to lean over and kiss Enjolras’s forehead, in spite of the urge to do so. It helps that Enjolras absolutely never would have permitted any such thing. He can’t take advantage of how vulnerable Grantaire is now. “I… I’m going to go do that, then. I’ll… I’ll be back, as soon as may be.”

He feels Enjolras’s eyes on him as he leaves the room.

It isn’t hard to find Montparnasse and Thenardier, growing steadily drunker in the common room of the inn. Montparnasse claps him on the back. “How was your time with our little prize?”

Grantaire knows he has a difficult line to walk. He has to convince them that Enjolras will never make them a fortune—but also that he wants Enjolras enough to want to _own_ him. The thought nauseates him, but he pushes it away. “Wonderful, as I’m sure you know. There was one small matter you did not mention.”

Montparnasse sighs. “Yes, the deformity of her face. It’s a real tragedy. There are men who don’t mind such things, but they tend to be… brutal. And there are fewer brutes than there are lechers, something I’m sure the whores of the world are grateful for.”

Grantaire forces himself to smile at the jest. “Well, I have a proposition that might ease your problem, my friend.”

“And it is?”

“I know the… the girl was not cheap. Let me take her off your hands. That way, you get your investment back, without having to bring the worst sort of man into your reputable house.” He inclines his head toward Thenardier at that.

Montparnasse looks at him appraisingly. “I did not know you were in a financial position to make this sort of investment,” he says.

“I… I was left a small inheritance, by my uncle.” A lie. A flagrant lie. Grantaire has never inherited anything in his life. No one in his family, who are middle class at best, would ever have anything to leave him. He attended the university only by grace of a scholarship, and since then he’s lived by his wits and the work of his hands. “I have been looking for just the prize to spend it on, and I think I have found it.”

“How much?” Thenardier says.

Grantaire swallows. “How much would you ask for hi—her?” He has to stop slipping up on that, or they might suspect that he knew Enjolras before, and he guesses they would not be as amenable to a rescue mission as they would be to a sale.

Thenardier’s eyes gleam with greed. “You first,” he says.

“Um. I was left a… a thousand francs.” Grantaire has never seen a thousand francs together in all his life. He has six sous in his pocket and that’s about all. If he pawned everything he owned, he might be able to come up with thirty francs. But they don’t know that. He forces himself to breathe calmly and steadily. He can’t give himself away, not when Enjolras’s safety and freedom is all depending on his ability to maintain this ruse. “Will that do?”

“Let me consider.”

“You could make far more than that from her,” Montparnasse points out. “Ten francs a tumble, and you’d have your money back before the month’s end.”

“ _If_ you can get the custom,” Grantaire points out, sick at himself for saying such words about Enjolras, about _anyone_. “How like are the sorts of gentlemen who spend ten francs on a whore to put up with a malformed face? Or with going where a half-dozen other men have been earlier that night?”

“Not to mention the costs of keeping her. The feed, the training,” Thenardier muses. “And how much longer before she’s poxy,or with child, and no good to me at all?”

“She’s worth more to one man than she is to a thousand, I think. No one wants what others have had as much as they want something for their own,” Grantaire makes himself say.

“So why you, then? Could I not put up an auction?”

“And deal with all the expense? And the attention? And—“ the barest hint of a threat “Possibly gendarmes, or a relative poking around asking questions? Or—“

“I see your point.” Thenardier licks his lips. “Have you the money on you?”

“I don’t bring my purse of a thousand francs with me when I go out drinking, no,” Grantaire teases, pretending a warmth he may never feel again. “It’s in the bank. I’ll sign you a promissory note for it tonight, if you have pen and quill.”

“The money first. Then the girl.”

Grantaire would find a way to get a thousand francs, even if he had to _steal_ it from the bank, but he’s not leaving Enjolras here overnight. “Nonsense,” he says. “You know I’m good for the money—Montparnasse knows my address, which means I’d be a thrice-cursed fool not to pay my debts. You’ll have it by week’s end, and I’ll have the—girl, tonight.” He tries to make himself sound confident, full of bluster, the sort of man who can discuss _buying and selling_ a human soul with ease.

“He has a point,” Montparnasse says casually, taking a swig of his drink. “Anyone who steals from me lives to regret it—but not for long.”

“Besides, I’m not handing over my inheritance to find that you’ve let half of Paris have her for a sou, or slashed up the other half of her face.” Grantaire decides to be his very crudest self. The more he fits in with these dreadful men, the more likely it is that they will not suspect him.

It’s not an easy role to play, for all that Grantaire has been called a disgrace many times.

“Fair enough,”Thenardier says. “Wife!”

A stout, unlovely woman around his years appears at his elbow. “What do you want, you bastard?”

“Get a shift or something for the girl. This gentleman here has just paid a small fortune for her, and I don’t imagine he wants her naked in the carriage home.”

“Indeed not,” the woman says, with a small smile every bit as cruel as her husband’s. “I’llget her ready for you.”

Grantaire is loathe to think of anyone a lone withEnjolras in his vulnerable state, but he has no choice but to tolerate it. Hopefully this woman will not hurt him further.

Hopefully, Grantaire will be able to get him home safely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no special warnings for this chapter, other than the same as the earlier horrors!

The next few minutes are perhaps the most awkward of Grantaire’s entire life, as he attempts to trade barbs with Montparnasse and order drinks from Thenardier when in fact there is only one thing he can think of: Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras.

Enjolras, blessedly _alive,_ after these painful years of uncertainty.

Enjolras, suffering, being raped and tortured, his beautiful body being abused for the sick, selfish pleasure of strangers, his perfect soul being ignored at best and violated at worst.

Enjolras, somehow, in _his_ hands, to help or to harm. It’s a responsibility that Grantaire absolutely never wanted, and that he considers himself extremely ill-suited for. He prefers to avoid power of any sort—which is probably one of the reasons Enjolras selected him as a lover in the first place—as he doesn’t particularly believe he can be trusted with it. He’d much rather be told what to do, or, if it all possible, just make jokes from the back. That’s where his skill set lies.

But that’s not what fate has decided for him. No, fate has decided to take the most precious person who has ever lived, the person for whom, as far as Grantaire is concerned, the world was created, and place him into Grantaire’s hands at the moment when he is most vulnerable.

Well, Grantaire will try to do what he needs to do, since as far as he can tell it’s not like there are many other better suited candidates lining up for the job. Once he has Enjolras home, and safe, he can ask him if there is someone else he’d rather stay with, or if he feels safe returning to his own chambers, but he’s certainly not going to abandon Enjolras, or expose his delicate position here, or the well-kept secret of his sex at birth, to anyone without Enjolras’ consent.

That leaves Grantaire, unworthy for the task though he certainly is, dealing with this alone.

He swallows hard as Enjolras is led down the stairs from the second floor. He’s wearing a rather pretty blue dress, cut low in the bodice, and his face has been made-up anew. He looks…

He looks terrified, his normally-fierce gaze trained on the floor, his hands behind his back. Grantaire is disgusted by himself, by his own momentary flash of desire for Enjolras, like this, in this woman’s guise he never would have put on willingly.

Even the other girls in the tavern, who for all Grantaire knows are there as willingly as any working woman can ever be said to be with so few other choices, shy away from the sight of him. Grantaire can’t help wondering if they knew about the captive upstairs, about what he had suffered through. No doubt they would have feared such a fate themselves—at least these women, unlovely and unhappy though they are, are free to walk about the inn, to choose their own custom, and to go home to their own rooms at night.

Not like Enjolras, who is trembling hard enough that Grantaire can see it from here.The urge to run to him, to comfort him, is almost overwhelming, but that would be unacceptable. Not only would it expose the lie that he needs to get Enjolras out of here, but it would also surely be unwelcome. Enjolras would no doubt be repulsed by—or even afraid of—his touch.

“I’ll get you a carriage,” Thenardier says with a leer. Grantaire hopes he has enough sous in his pocket to pay the fare, but he’s hardly about to ask Enjolras to walk through the chill night air exposed like this.

Before they are able to depart, Grantaire promises again to have the money sent by Monday. He tries not to let himself worry about where he is going to acquire a small fortune from, let alone whether or not he thinks it’s okay to let money pass into the hands of a kidnapper and monster like Thenardier. “Anything else I should know?” He asks.

“Oh!” Montparnasse says. “I’m glad you asked, I had forgotten. The girl’s training! She does nothing without a direct command. So if you wish her to do something, you must tell her to, and then she will have no choice.”

“It’s a bit of an irritation, if I’m being honest,” Thenardier adds. “Gotta have someone order her to eat, to sleep, even to piss. But she was like that when we bought her, and it’s charming enough in the right moment, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Grantaire is imagining far, far too many things, and he doesn’t want to. Things like: what kind of torture would it take to turn Enjolras, the strongest and most independent-minded person he’s ever known, into someone who can’t even meet his own basic needs without a command? Things like: how on Earth is Grantaire going to manage this, when there is no way he can bring himself to order around the man he loves? Things like: how satisfying would it be to find everyone who has dared to presume that they had any right to tell Enjolras what to do, and rend them limb-from-limb?

But he can’t say any of that. The only thing he can say is, “Well, that sounds annoying. Have you tried to break it?”

“Oh, no. When we bought her, we were warned—she was a real fighter, beforehand. Had all kinds of crazy notions. Dressed as a man, even, so she could hide that pretty body.” Thenardier is grinning. “She had to be taught her place, but she knows it now, well enough.”

“I see,” Grantaire says, simply. “Well, you’ll get your money, sir. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Thenardier approaches Enjolras. Grantaire stiffens, but forces himself not to react visibly. He can’t exactly swing a punch atthe man in front of a room full of people—he’s already decided he doesn’t want to try to fight his way out of this, and that meanshe has to let him just… layhis dirty, disgusting hands on Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras doesn’t visibly react.

“This man owns you now,” Thenardier says, with a gesture at Grantaire. “Bought and paid for. You follow his orders. Nod if you understand.”

Enjolras nods. Grantaire wonders if that horrible contraption is still in his mouth, forcing it open, preventing him from being able to speak.

“Good. Follow him.” He slaps Enjolras on the arse once, firmly, and then pushes him towards Grantaire. Grantaire takes a deep breath and walks out the door, hoping that Enjolras will follow. He can hear his quiet footsteps behind him as he makes his way out the door and into the waiting carriage.

It’s time to head home.

“Come along,” he says to Enjolras, quietly, and then, “Have a seat.”

Enjolras tries to conceal a wince as he sits on the bench of the carriage. Grantaire dreads finding out what injuries that belies—he hadn’t seen the back half of Enjolras’s body, as he was lying prone on the bed, so he doesn’t know what to expect.

“Up for a pleasant night, then?” The driver says with a wink.

Grantaire makes himself smile. “Yes, indeed. To my lodgings, and with haste!” He gives the driver his address, and then sits back and tries not to work himself into a panic. It’s hardly worth trying to force a conversation with Enjolras here, seeing as how they have an audience, so he restrains himself to the occasional glance at him.

Enjolras is sitting, head bowed, his long golden hair once again falling over his face. Grantaire wonders if that posture had been trained into him, if he’d been told to keep the scar covered up. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and he is perfectly still, unmoving, silent, barely breathing.

He’ll do nothing without an order, Thenardier had said. Grantaire only prays that that will not last past his fear, that once Enjolras is calm enough to realize that he’s safe and free now he’ll be able to shake whatever cruel conditioning had taught him this unnatural stillness and silence.

He doubts it will be that easy, but that doesn’t matter much. Whatever Enjolras needs, that’s what he’ll do. He only prays he can be good enough to discover what that is. He hasn’t prayed in a long time, but if there were ever a cause to appeal to a higher power, this is it. Grantaire with the most precious man in the world depending on him. He’s going to need divine intervention if he wants to not ruin this completely.

It’s a short, smooth ride to Grantaire’s lodgings. The cost comes to four sous, which Grantaire gratefully pays, glad it’s not more. He tips the man an extra for his kindness and discretion.

Only a moment after exiting the carriage does he remember that he needs to turn back to Enjolras and tell him, “Come along.” Giving him an order, _making_ him do something, turns Grantaire’s stomach. The words feel like they should scorch his lips like fire. But he does it all the same.

His rooms are on the fourth story, and he is brutally out of breath, as always, by the second. Enjolras follows without a word as Grantaire hauls his drunk, exhausted, overwhelmed self up the stairs, unlocks the door, and enters his chambers.

Enjolras has been here before, years ago. Grantaire still lets the same two small rooms. The main room is where he works—it’s strewn with paints and brushes and half-finished canvasses, several of which, he blushes to realize, are in fact portraits of Enjolras. He hopes none of them are in an advanced enough state of completion that his model will be able to recognize himself. This room also contains the simple table and single chair that Grantaire eats some of his meals at. He’ll have to get a second chair if Enjolras is going to be staying more than just tonight, he supposes.

The only other room is a simple bedchamber, with a single bed and a chamberpot and nothing else in it. Grantaire realizes these are not exactly luxurious accommodations, certainly not what Enjolras deserves. But it’s all he has to offer, insufficient as it is. Insufficient as he is.

“Well,” he says to Enjolras. “Um. This is… this is my house. You’ve been here before.”

Enjolras waits, head bowed, silent.

“Are you—can you talk? Answer, if you can, please.”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“Is it—the thing in your mouth?”

Enjolras nods, very slightly.

“Will you take it out? Please?”

Enjolras hesitates. His hand moves a little, but not to his mouth.

He won’t respond except to an order, Grantaire reminds himself. Enjolras had seemed afraid at the prospect of the device being removed earlier, and Grantaire doesn’t want to force him to do it, or anything. And yet he can hardly allow Enjolras to continue to suffer, nor can he figure out how to help him if Enjolras is unable to speak.

Grantaire sighs. He wishes he had a second chair now, because this conversation would feel a lot more comfortable if they could sit across the table from each other, instead of standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. But of all the problems Grantaire has right now, his interior decorating is a very minor one.

“Um. Okay. I want you to try to answer, if you can, please.” Politely worded though it is, Grantaire knows he’s giving a command, one that Enjolras may feel he has no choice but to obey. And yet he doesn’t know what else to do. “Um, do you remember me, from before?”

Enjolras flinches, but gives a tiny nod.

“Okay. That’s good. Um. That must mean… you remember who _you_ are, right? You remember your life, and the Amis, and…”

Enjolras lets out a soft moan of pure fear, but makes himself nod. Every muscle in his body is rigid by now, as if he expects a blow. Which… he probably does.

Grantaire resolves to drop that line of questioning. Obviously, Enjolras has been encouraged not to think about his life before captivity. Pushing too hard will only harm him. “And, do you understand what happened back at the inn? I, um, I paid Thenardier to be able to take you home.”

Enjolras nods.

“I want you to understand why I did that. Because I had to make it seem, for them, that I was… like them. I’d rather have done a proper rescue, but that seemed… unwise. So I just… I promised them money, so I could bring you here. But only, _only,_ so that no one could hurt you. Enjolras, I need you to understand. I’m never going to hurt you. I’m never going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I only brought you here so I could help, if I can. You’re safe now. You’re free. Enjolras, it’s over.”

Enjolras is staring at the ground, his eyes hidden by the long fall of his blond hair. Grantaire wishes he knew what on earth he was thinking.

“I need you to nod if you understand,” Grantaire says, and he can’t help himself now, his voice breaks like he’s about to weep. Which, if he’s honest with himself, he probably is. “I need you… Enjolras, I need to know if you believe me. Please.”

He waits, breathless, for Enjolras’s response.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for mentions of physical abuse and for particularly horrific and violent sexual abuse

Enjolras’s reaction is almost imperceptible at first. He flinches back, slightly, and Grantaire wishes for what must be the hundred thousandth time that he could actually see Enjolras’s face properly. If he could just see his eyes, if he could just read whatever expression is written there, then maybe, maybe, he could figure out what he’s doing wrong. What he could do, to make all of this a little bit easier on Enjolras. It also might be nice if he could read minds. Really, all he wants is to be able to _communicate_ with Enjolras, because without that all he can do is guess, and his guesses are shitty. Obviously.

If he onlyknew what Enjolras _wanted…_

But he doesn’t know. Maybe he just isn’t going to be able to get that information from him, not for a while at least. And that’s just going to have to be okay, because the thing is, as much as Grantaire doesn’t want to be left in the dark about what the right and wrong things to do here are, the desire to get things right pales in the face of the _need_ not to push Enjolras too far, not to make him do anything he’s not completely comfortable with. And if that means making guesses, even if some of them are wrong, well, that’s just what Grantaire will do.

Enjolras hasn’t moved, still, and Grantaire takes that silence, that stillness, as an answer. He either actively thinks Grantaire might hurt him, or is unsure enough about the possibility that he’s afraid to say anything. Either way, he’s incredibly vulnerable.

Either way, Grantaire has to stop trying to force him into taking the lead here. That was how things used to be between them, but it can’t be now. Enjolras obviously needs him to step up.

He’ll think about the moral implications, and everything else, in the morning when he’s sober. Right now, they both need rest, and Enjolras needs to not actively be in pain anymore.

That means he’ll have to do as Thenardier told him he would have to, and tell Enjolras what to do.

“Okay. I want you to take that thing out of your mouth. Can you do it yourself? Nod or shake your head.”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“I’m going to do it then. Open your mouth, please.”

Enjolras’s mouth falls open at the command. Grantaire can see the horrible device in his mouth.

“Okay. Hang on. I’m sorry, this will probably be a little uncomfortable.”

He reaches into Enjolras’s mouth, trying not to actually touch _him_ at all. It’s not difficult to find where the wire falls behind his teeth, and a simple squeeze compresses it enough that he can slide the whole horrible contraption out.

He sees Enjolras’s eyes flit over to it momentarily, and then away. He doesn’t move otherwise.

“Um. Feel free to, uh, close your mouth, or… or whatever is most comfortable.”

Only then does Enjolras start to move his jaw in small circles, no doubt trying to massage out what must be a substantial amount of cramping and pain.

He wants to ask again if Enjolras can talk, but he knows it’s too much. Instead, he looks down at the device. There’s a small amount of blood on it, but not enough that he worries Enjolras may be seriously hurt. It’s not enough to justify making him open up his mouth again, with the vulnerability and, no doubt, fear that goes along with that. Grantaire can’t help but realize what must have been done to Enjolras when he was in that position, how many people must have used his forced-open mouth for their own pleasure.

Instead, he says, “I need you to tell me if you’re in pain anywhere else. Can you tell, or show me?”

Enjolras nods and, before Grantaire can stop him, strips off the dress he’s wearing and turns around. Grantaire hadn’t seen his back before—it had been pressed against the bed—so this is the first glimpse he’s getting of the damage done to Enjolras’s naked body.

He’s been beaten. Both often, and recently. The worst of the scars, the ones that have really knotted up into pink, raised marks across his skin, just like the one on his face, are clearly from an older beating, maybe more than one. They go from his shoulders, all the way down the swell of his arse and his upper thighs.

But those aren’t the only marks on him. There are also red, raw lashes laid over those scars, deep bruises, and a few scabbed-over welts. Nothing there looks infected, but it must be awful, the pain.

And they were making him lie on his back, pressing the old and new wounds into scratchy sheets. They were making him suffer.

Grantaire forces himself to take a breath. He needs to keep himself as calm as he possibly can. If he loses control of his temper, he won’t be able to make the best decisions possible, won’t be able to ensure that Enjolras has everything he needs. Worse, he might—probably will—frighten Enjolras, who has come as close as he can to saying outright that he no longer trusts, maybe doesn’t even remember, Grantaire.

Anger gets him nothing. It doesn’t help Enjolras.

There’s one other thing, too. A thick, dark… something, sticking out from between the shapely cheeks of Enjolras’s battered backside.

“Is there… did they leave something inside you?” Grantaire asks, afraid of the answer but unwilling to let Enjolras suffer for his cowardice.

Enjolras nods, slightly.

“Okay. Um. Does it hurt?” He won’t touch Enjolras there, given that he’s obviously incapable of giving consent, unless he’s in pain, but he also won’t leave Enjolras to hurt and suffer just because of his own moral qualms.

Enjolras nods again.

“I’m going to try and take it out, then. Uh. This might be easier if you, um, bend over the table, and brace yourself.”

Enjolras drops instantly into the requested position. With his legs spread, Grantaire can see clearly the mess left between his thighs, the spend of all the men who have hurt him recently. It must be drying there, too.

“Breathe out for me, and bear down. That will make this a little easier.” Grantaire has enough experience with anal penetration—admittedly, in far more enjoyable contexts than this, especially where Enjolras has been concerned—to know how to do this.

He takes hold of the part of the object he can see, and gives it a small, experimental tug. It doesn’t budge visibly, but Enjolras lets out a pained gasp, and then immediately tenses.

“I’m so sorry,” Grantaire says. “Would you rather I leave it? I…”

No answer. Of course. He’ll only answer if he’s ordered to.

“I want you to do something for me, Enjolras,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. He feels absurd like this. The man he loves and desires above all others, naked and bent over his dining room table, suffering and terrified, and Grantaire somehow trying to figure out how to tell him what to do. “If you want me to stop, I want you to give me a signal. Snap your fingers, okay? Can you—show me that, now.”

Enjolras snaps his fingers, as requested.

“Good. I want you to do that if I’m hurting or scaring you, if you want me to stop what I’m doing. I want to know how you’re feeling. Nod if you understand.”

Enjolras nods.

“Nod if you think you can do that.”

Another nod.

“Very good,” Grantaire says, and then could immediately kick himself for doing something so colossally stupid. Yes, Enjolras is vulnerable right now, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he wants patronizing praise, the way, say, Grantaire would. “I’m gonna give this another try now, okay? Hang on.”

He runs to the cabinet, fetching a bottle of linseed oil. He lets a few drops land on Enjolras’s skin, hopefully smoothing the way as he takes hold of the object yet again. This time, he tries to twist it a little bit as he works to pull it free.

Enjolras lets out a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob, but he doesn’t snap his fingers.

Grantaire tries again.

On his third tug, the object starts to come free—and Grantaire realizes why it was so difficult.

It’s a wine bottle. A regular, full-sized, brown glass litre bottle of wine. The very lip of it had been left to hang out of Enjolras, while the rest had been forced in there. It’s sticky with oil and no small amount of blood as it pops clean of Enjolras with a horrific wrenching noise.

Enjolras doesn’t react, other than a shaky breath.

Grantaire, on the other hand, is shaking so badly that he’s afraid he’s going to drop the bottle. He wonders how long this thing has been inside Enjolras. Since before he arrived? Longer?

And Enjolras had just let him pull it out. As though he wasn’t at risk of being crippled if Grantaire pulled too hard and shattered the glass inside him.

Enjolras doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t. He can’t do anything unless he’s given an order. And if he is given an order, he’ll do it, no matter what. No matter how anyone wants to hurt or abuse him.

Grantaire is just now beginning to realize how deep the abuse must have gone. He had known Enjolras had been beaten and raped in his captivity, but it goes worse than that, and much deeper. They found away to take Enjolras’s bold, brave spirit and shatter it.

Maybe he’s still in there, somewhere, hiding to protect himself from more pain. Maybe Grantaire can help him come back to himself.

Maybe he’s not. Maybe the Enjolras he used to know is gone forever.

Either way, Enjolras is here, in front of him. Beaten and broken, changed beyond recognition. But _here._

Grantaire has to find a way to be what he needs.

“I’m going to go get you a cloth. I want you to clean yourself up,” he says. The bath is down the hall, and the idea of figuring out how to fill it and navigate getting the bruised and battered Enjolras in and out without causing a stir is more than Grantaire can currently wrap his mind around. Instead, he finds an old shirt—his dishcloths and painting rags are too coarse, and might hurt Enjolras’s injured skin, the shirt is softer—and dips it in the water-basin. “Be as gentle as you need. I don’t want you to hurt yourself, but I want you to clean up some of what’s between your legs so it doesn’t pull at your skin.”

Grantaire pointedly does not watch as Enjolras mechanically follows his commands. The sight of him spread out like that, both his orifices red and abused, knowing what’s been done to him—the combination of horror and arousal is too much to bear. Instead, he ducks into his room, rummaging around to find the soft trousers he usually uses when he boxes. They’ll be loose on Enjolras, more so since he has lost a substantial amount of weight, but it’s better than leaving him naked or forcing him to put the dress back on. He reluctantly decides against a nightshirt—as much as he wants to give Enjolras back the modesty that, even when they were lovers, he so carefully maintained, he’s sure even the softest fabric will hurt him. Tomorrow he’ll try to figure out a way to give Enjolras more protection in the back while covering his chest. Maybe some sort of bandage.

But for tonight, this will do.

“Stand up,” he instructs Enjolras quietly, and hands him the trousers. “Put these on.”

Enjolras’s hands are trembling as he does what he’s told.

“Great. Do you think you could sleep? Nod or shake your head.”

He nods.

“Good. I want you to go into the bedroom, lie down however is most comfortable, and go to sleep.”

Enjolras does exactly as he’s told.

Grantaire stays up for a little bit, ignoring the pounding wooziness in his head. He disposes of the two torture devices, burying them deep in the rubbish bin so he’ll never have to see them again. He moves the canvasses that depict Enjolras behind others, still lives or landscapes. And then he stretches out on the floor of his studio and lapses into a lurching, drunken sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra content notes for this chapter: explicit dream about consensual BDSM, brief scene of non/dub-con sexual contact, implied food issues

Grantaire is having the most wonderful dream. He knows it’s not real, because in real life, Enjolras would never allow this sort of intimacy, but he doesn’t mind too much. Real or not, it’s everything he’s ever wanted. Not that being with Enjolras in any way he’ll allow it isn’t a thousand thousand times more than he could ever deserve. Because it is.

But yes, this is what his heart’s desire looks like, and even though he knows it’s not real, he’s grateful that his mind lets him linger there awhile. 

He dreams that Enjolras let him spend the night in his rooms after thoroughly debauching his body. On the floor, of course, as befits him, but at his feet, in his presence. In his dreams, he and Enjolras are never equals. He wouldn’t want that, even in the world of his own imagining. He wants to serve, but intimately, more closely than Enjolras would allow of any of his other lieutenants. 

Which is why he dreams that he’s waking up to find Enjolras’s mouth on him.

It’s something Enjolras has never done before, but Grantaire had dreamed of it since long before they became lovers. Enjolras looks so gorgeous like this, with Grantaire pinned to the ground beneath him, helpless underneath the intoxicating power of his mouth. He doesn’t know if, in real life, Enjolras has ever actually done this—he has to suspect not, given that Enjolras had abjured the pleasures of the flesh until one day he decided to pull Grantaire into his bed—but he has always imagined that he would be exceedingly good at it. Experienced or not, Enjolras is extraordinarily good with his mouth, whether he’s tearing down wrongdoers with his tongue or biting a claim into Grantaire’s neck.

So in his dream, Enjolras has no trouble staking his claim on Grantaire this way too. His eyes are locked on Grantaire’s, fierce and fiery, as he lets his red, red lips trail across the tip of Grantaire’s cock.

Grantaire can’t stifle a moan, and Enjolras pulls off him long enough to shoot him a ferocious glare. “Quiet, ‘Aire. I didn’t tell you you could make noise.”

He has to bite down hard on his lower lip after that to stay pliant, stay quiet, stay good, just how Enjolras wants him. 

Enjolras is playing lazily with his cock, rolling his tongue across the head, smirking when Grantaire fights not to buck his hips into the wild pleasure and unbearable beauty of the man he loves more than anything there, touching him so intimately. The fact that Enjolras wants to touch him at all still seems too wonderful to believe. Enjolras flicks his tongue away, and reminds Grantaire, sternly, “Now, don’t you dare think of coming. I want to play with you, and I expect you to be a good toy for as long as I want, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire manages hoarsely, which earns him a wicked smirk, and then Enjolras is swallowing his cock all the way down, which, how on Earth did he learn to do that when Enjolras is still practically a virgin, and he sees that Enjolras’s hands on him are shaking, but that’s not right, he’s supposed to be in charge here, and he’s…

He’s…

He’s on the floor, his hands behind his back, his mouth stretched obscenely over Grantaire’s erection, and he’s gagging and choking but not stopping as he forces himself down, and Grantaire is all at once wide-awake. The dream version of Enjolras disappears and he’s left with the cold reality of the shattered shell of the man he loves, the man who is currently sucking Grantaire’s cock, not playfully and confidently, but desperately, like his life depends on it.

Which, for all Grantaire knows, Enjolras has been led to believe it does.

He chokes back a shout. He doesn’t want to scare Enjolras. He has to be so, so careful here, or he’ll only hurt him further. 

But he can’t do this to him. He can’t be another man who has raped him, even if it wasn’t by his choice, even if he was asleep and unknowing. Grantaire would hate himself for it already, for how much he’s enjoyed feeling Enjolras’s mouth on him like this, even when Enjolras is terrified, even when he believes he has no choice. For turning it into a dream of when they were lovers, and making a parody of that too.

The only thing that stops him form lapsing into self-pity, his oldest companion, is that he has no time to hate himself. Maybe one day he’ll be able to indulge in guilt and depression and all of that, but right now he has something much more important to focus on, and that’s preventing Enjolras from coming to any more harm.

“Enjolras, I need you to stop,” he says, keeping his voice calm. He doesn’t want to make a habit out of ordering Enjolras around, but if there was ever an exception to that rule, this is it. 

Enjolras freezes at once, but he stays where he is, choking himself on Grantaire’s cock. The noises he’s making are horrifying, gut-wrenching retching sounds. Grantaire can feel his throat convulsing around the intrusion. Grantaire has choked on a few cocks in his day, and he used to like doing it—but he can hear that Enjolras is in pain, and see the tears welling in his blue, blue eyes, and there’s nothing of desire or tenderness or even submission, intimate as it can be, in this act. Only fear. 

Enjolras is only afraid of him. Nothing else. Whatever they had or were before, it has been burned away by Enjolras’s ordeal, leaving behind this parody of love-making. 

“Sit up for me, please,” Grantaire makes himself say, as calmly as he can. He can't seem angry—God only knows what these men who owned him did to Enjolras when they were angry. Well, he supposes that’s more self-deception. He knows knows at least some of what they did, from the marks that Enjolras will likely carry for the rest of his life. And it’s already too clear that he doesn’t yet see a real difference between those men and Grantaire. He doesn’t believe Grantaire would never hurt him. It’s possible he doesn’t fully recognize Grantaire, or remember his life before captivity. 

Grantaire reminds himself, firmly, that it doesn’t matter. His job now is to take care of Enjolras, however Enjolras needs. It can’t be about making himself better. Or about how much he misses the Enjolras that was in his dreams, that was strong and confident and happy. This has to be about the Enjolras that’s right in front of him, wearing nothing but a pair of Grantaire’s old trousers, kneeling, breathing hard, his long golden hair once again obscuring his face. 

“I thought you couldn’t act without an order,” Grantaire says, not quite a question. “Explain, if you can.”

Enjolras makes a complicated shrug.

“Is that something you were told to do before? By somebody else?” It’s too easy to see how that could have been one of the demands placed on Enjolras—if a client spent extra to stay the night, to wake them with pleasure.

Enjolras nods.

“Okay. Listen. You don’t have to—I don’t want you to follow any orders from before.” Or at all, but he figures saying that is going to complicate things more than necessary. Enjolras probably isn’t ready to do without the guidance of someone telling him what to do, and it’s better that person be someone who would never hurt him. Grantaire is a little sick with himself for taking on that power, but he’s going to have to do it. “Nod if that makes sense.”

Enjolras pauses, but eventually nods. 

“Good. Now, I need a way to know if something is—is hurting, or upsetting you, if I’m pushing too hard, or…” When they used to be lovers, before Enjolras disappeared, he used to give Grantaire something to hold, that would make a sound when dropped, if Grantaire was going to be gagged at all. That isn’t practical, he doesn’t want Enjolras restricted by trying to keep a bell in hand at all times, but something like that… “You remember, last night I asked you to snap your fingers if I was hurting you while I…” He takes a deep breath and makes himself say it. Talking around the horror of it might only confuse Enjolras, and he needs to be as clear as possible. “While I was getting the bottle out of you?”

A small nod.

“Do you think that’s something you could do? Not just if you’re in physical pain, but if there’s something I’ve asked you to do that’s upsetting you? I want to know these things, and…”

To his surprise, Enjolras nods. 

Grantaire can’t help but smile. “Okay. Okay, um, that’s great. Now, listen, we need to talk. Or, I guess, I’m gonna talk. I need you to understand some stuff, though. For this whole thing, I want you to nod if you understand, or shake your head if you don’t. And… and just snap your fingers if you need or want me to drop a subject. Does that make sense?”

Another nod.

“Great. Wait.” He goes to the cabinets, rummages a little bit. They hadn’t eaten after their late arrival, and Enjolras looks painfully thin. 

He doesn’t keep much food in his rooms, as there are no cooking facilities here, so he only has some bread and butter and preserves. He offers Enjolras a tartine, well spread with both. 

“Eat this, please,” he says. 

Enjolras takes it obediently, bites in, and immediately cries out in pain. Then he takes another bite, as if his reaction has not happened… or simply had not mattered.

“Stop, stop,” Grantaire tells him. “What’s wrong…” And then he realizes, and curses himself a thousand times for being such a wretched fool. 

The inside of Enjolras’s mouth, with the tender skin there, is still no doubt raw and hurting where the gag had pressed into Enjolras’s mouth. And Grantaire had just given him a slightly stale, well-crusted hunk of bread, which is no doubt tearing agonizingly into those spots.

“I… I think…” He takes a breath. He’d been so determined to handle this on his own, but obviously he’s not equipped to deal with all that Enjolras has suffered through. “I think I need outside help. I want…” 

He wants to hand this problem over to someone else, because he is so profoundly and obviously incapable of doing anything right, because if someone were to make a grand list of all of the people on Earth who were worthy of taking care of a broken and frightened Enjolras, Grantaire would be right near the bottom, just before the people who had actually broken him, but he knows he cannot. It would not be right to give up his responsibility to Enjolras just because he feels himself unworthy.

That doesn’t mean he can do it all alone. “I want to bring in a doctor to take a look at you. Do you think that would be okay?”

Enjolras nods. 

“Good. Um.” He thinks it over for a moment. It might be easier, in the moment, to have it be a stranger—he’s sure Enjolras might be hesitant to have a friend see him like this, or would be if he were in any state to actually consider what he is and is not comfortable with—but there are two considerations that prevent him from simply sending for a physician.

First, he doubts a stranger would respect Enjolras’s identity and the trauma he’s been through. Grantaire is a cynic, but also a realist—in their world, Enjolras will be seen only as a girl of ill repute, and unworthy of even the most basic courtesy.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, Grantaire can’t afford to pay a doctor.

So that leaves two real options: Joly, and Combeferre. It’s obvious who the better choice is. Joly is too easily upset, and too much a hypochondriac. Combeferre’s sober seriousness is exactly what Enjolras needs.

“I’m going to send a message to Combeferre, okay? See if he can come over and take a look at you.”

Enjolras falls back from his knees, scrambling back a step. Grantaire sees him raise a hand, and, as if in slow-motion, snap his fingers.

“Okay,” he starts to say, because although he doesn’t know why the mention of his best friend’s name has provoked such abject terror in Enjolras, he obviously has no intention of forcing him to do anything that so obviously frightens him. “We don’t—“

“Please,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire freezes. It’s the first time he’s heard Enjolras’s voice in… God, in years. And it’s so distinctly him, even though it’s husky from disuse and shaking with terror. It’s the voice that Grantaire would follow to the ends of the Earth. “Please. Not that. Sir. Anything but that. Please.”

His words come out staccato, broken up by harsh intakes of breath, as though every one pains him. Which it probably does. 

Grantaire doesn’t know what provoked him to finally speak. He doesn’t know why the idea of seeing his dearest friend is so terrifying that he fears it more than he does making his voice heard at last. He only knows that Enjolras needs him, right now, right here.

“Of course,” he says, not sure how he’ll get Enjolras’s wounds seen to without the help of an expert but completely sure that he won’t be able to live with himself if he frightens Enjolras like this for a moment longer, if he doesn’t find a way to console him. “Of course, then we won’t, if that’s what you want. No one will see you that you don’t want. I promise. It’s okay.”

“Thank you, sir,” Enjolras says, the distant dignity Grantaire remembers back in his voice, and then falls silent once more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an extra-long and slightly plot-heavy chapter this time. content warnings: discussion of enjolras's injuries, medical stuff, technically misgendering

He’s torn between being pleased that Enjolras has started talking again at last and being terrified that he has some sort of serious injury that Grantaire isn’t equipped to recognize or help him with.

After a significant amount of worrying, Grantaire decides he’ll just have to do the best he can on his own. “Will you be okay by yourself for a little while?” he asks. He really doesn’t want to leave Enjolras, but he also can’t do without some supplies.

Enjolras nods.

“Is it…” He hesitates, not wanting to ask this question, but not sure how to avoid it, either. “I want to talk to… to our physician friend, about what you need for your injuries. Is that okay, as long as he doesn’t actually come here?”

“Yes, sir. If…”

“Go on,” Grantaire prompts gently, knowing that Enjolras will likely need the inducement to feel able to speak.

“If he doesn’t know it’s me.”

Ah. That answers some things for Grantaire, at least. He suspects that he now knows the cause of Enjolras’s paralyzing terror.

It is at being seen this way, in such a vulnerable and wounded state, by someone he esteems.

Grantaire isn’t even sure that any of the other Amis, including Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Enjolras’s dearest friends, know the secret of his sex at birth. As far as he knows (and he’s often treasured the idea that this might have meant something, meant that Enjolras cared for or even trusted him), he’s the only one that Enjolras entrusted with that particular piece of information, and it was only for meaningless sex. Perhaps the real reason is because Grantaire wasn’t actually ever very important to Enjolras. He had no value as a comrade or a friend, so he could be cast off with ease.

But that’s self-pity, and it has no place in his new role as Enjolras’s caregiver and protector. Besides, whether Enjolras lets him know these secrets about himself because he trusts Grantaire, or because he disdains him, it doesn’t matter. He’s _asking_ for something, and he’s going to get it.

“I promise,” Grantaire says. “I won’t tell him it’s you.” He’s concocting a story already in his mind. The fewer details the better—let Combeferre fill in the blanks with scandals of his own invention, rather than hear too much from Grantaire and risk him realizing the secret against Enjolras’s express wishes.

He’d rather not take the risk at all, especially because he doesn’t know exactly what Enjolras is so afraid of. He’s only guessing that it has something to do with not wanting Combeferre to know what he’s been through. It could be something else, something worse.

But Enjolras doesn’t object to their meeting, and Grantaire needs help. As much as he wishes he could, he can’t give Enjolras everything he needs with just his devoted heart and his own two hands.

His first action of the day, then, is to send a gamin with messages to two households: the flat that Doctor Jean Combeferre lets, not far from Grantaire’s own rooms, and the fine mansion of Baron Marius Pontmercy, requesting urgent meetings with them both. While the boy is about his errands, Grantaire tries to ensure Enjolras’s comfort, as much as possible, during his absence.

He fetches porridge and yogurt from the grocer’s on the corner, and offers both foods to Enjolras. He supposes them soft and mild enough to upset neither his injured mouth nor his delicate stomach. He also sets out clean clothes, wash-water, and dry cloths.

The gamin returns less than an hour later, telling him that both his journeys were successful, finding the gentlemen at home. Doctor Combeferre is on his way already, and expects to meet him at a nearby café before the morning is out. The Baron and his lady wife await his call later this afternoon, at their home.

Now it’s time to actually let Enjolras out of his sight. This is the hard part.

“You can do whatever you need while I’m gone. Wait, sorry, let me be clear. I need you to take care of yourself while I’m gone, okay? Bathe if you feel the need, sleep if you’re tired, eat if you’re hungry, drink if you’ve a thirst, and use the chamberpot if you’ve a need for it. Nod if you understand.”

Enjolras does so.

“Do you feel you’ll be able to do that?”

Another nod. Grantaire wishes he were more surprised, but of course, it must be a relief to Enjolras, to finally feel that he’s going to have a small measure of freedom. Grantaire briefly considers trying to find a way to send Enjolras back to his own rooms, but he knows that wouldn’t be the right decision. He’d be acting to expunge his own guilt, not to take better care of Enjolras, and that’s unacceptable.

“Anything in the flat, you can feel free to use. I have plenty of books, if you want to read, or anything else. Okay?”

He nods.

“All right. Um. I’ll try to stop by between my two meetings, but I don’t know if I have the time. I’m sorry, Enjolras. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t important.”

Enjolras looks at him, almost as though he’s trying to assure him that it’s okay, but he doesn’t speak. Of course he doesn’t.

Grantaire dresses quickly and hurries to the Etoile d’Auvergnes. It’s a small café, one he’s familiar with. He orders a coffee—no wine for him, not when Enjolras needs him to keep his head clear—and finds Combeferre sitting at a table for two outside.

“You look well, old friend,” Grantaire says, and it’s true. It’s been a while since he’s seen Combeferre—the Amis meetings holding but little appeal without Enjolras—but it’s still a pleasure to see Combeferre again.

“You do not. Is anything amiss? I was surprised to get your call, and you seem troubled.”

Straight to the thick of it, then. Grantaire is relieved. It’s not that he doesn't want to trade pleasantries with Courfeyrac. Ordinarily, it would be a true pleasure to catch back up with an old friend he hasn’t seen in a while. “This is not a purely social call. I need your medical expertise, and the matter is… very delicate indeed.”

“Of course.” Combeferre straightens, looking at once extremely serious.

Grantaire had thought a bit about how to present this. It galls him to lie to a friend, though he wouldn’t hesitate to do so for Enjolras’s sake. It troubles him all the more to speak of Enjolras as though he were a woman. But, in case Combeferre does know Enjolras’s secret, he supposes he ought to maintain the subterfuge. “Last night, I stumbled across a… a former mistress, of mine. She had been badly treated by a number of men, and has injuries of a most horrid and intimate nature. I helped her home, but she fears to be examined by a doctor. I wonder if you can tell me what I might need to do to ensure her safety.”

Combeferre frowns, pushing his glasses up his nose. “This young lady was ravished, I presume?”

“More than once, I fear.” Grantaire is briefly worried that Combeferre will press his story—or worse, refuse to help—but he does not.

“What else can you tell me of her injuries?”

Grantaire describes what he can. “They beat her. With a whip, I think. Maybe more than once. The wounds are not recent, but the scarring is bad, on her back, and on her face.”

Combeferre sighs. “There’s little we can do for old scars, I’m afraid. Counsel her to keep the wounds moisturized—simple oil will do it—and they may fade, or at least be less painful over time.”

“She was also… gagged, with something that cut into the corners of her mouth. Metal.”

“Hmm. I would love to ensure there was no infection, but of course I respect her need for privacy at such a delicate time. You should, however, watch carefully. If you see any sign of infection—swelling or pus at the site of the injury, or fever—call for a physician. I know of a few women practicing nursing, from abroad of course, if it is my sex that causes concern. Otherwise, keep it clean. I recommend rinsing with salted water after every time she eats. And stick to soft, mild foods. Mouth wounds can get infected readily, but they heal blessedly quickly.”

“There were also some… more intimate wounds.”

“As I can imagine,” Combeferre says. “Can you give any more details?”

“They put a… a bottle inside her. A wine bottle. In her… backside.” He winces as he describes it, the horrible memory of pulling the object from Enjolras’s battered body coming back to them.

“Has it been removed?”

“Yes, of course.”

“All in one piece?”

“Yes.”

“Any blood on it?”

“Yes. A lot.”

Combeferre frowns again, confirming Grantaire’s suspicion that the blood is a potential risk to Enjolras. “But the bottle itself was intact?”

“Yes.”

“I should think that was a tearing wound, rather than a cutting one, then.” He takes a moment to consider. “Again, I should like to see it myself, but I understand that is not possible in this case. Sometimes such tears are better treated through surgery, and a few simple stitches can heal them completely. They’re not uncommon, and not always the result of such trauma. But in any case, she can ensure they heal by remaining hydrated so that her stool is soft and does not reirritate the area. If she is still bleeding there today, I would say you need to call a physician, even over her objections. What about her womanly parts?”

“I don’t know if she was injured there. She was certainly… abused. By many men.”

“If I were her physician, I should check for tears as well. But again, she will heal. She is in good health otherwise?”

“I think so. Woundedby her ordeal. And too thin.”

“Nutrition will be important. Rich, fatty foods, to help her put weight back on so that her body can heal from what it has been through.” Combeferre gives him a small smile. “It is a real kindness you are doing, Grantaire. Too often the victims of such crimes are treated as little better than fallen women, to be subject only to further mistreatment.”

“All I want to do is help.”

“Then I am at your disposal to provide what assistance I may.” Combeferre hesitates. “There is one further thing you should know about.”

“Yes?”

“Such wounds live not just in the body, but in the mind. It will be a long time—if ever—before she is well again.”

“Do you know what I should expect? In the meantime?”

“The symptoms vary, but I believe you may expect attacks of the nerves, hysterical symptoms of all kinds, and above all disturbances of the sleep.”

Grantaire nods. That’s no worse than what he expected, especially after the depth of trauma that Enjolras has been through. “I’m prepared for that.”

“Good. Should you need further advice, just send to me.”

It’s too late in the afternoon,by the time Grantaire has pestered Combeferre for every warning sign he needs to watch out for, every potential danger to Enjolras’s health and recovery, for him to go back home and check on Enjolras. He sends up a silent hope that he’s doing well—he has become much more likely to pray inthese last few days, though he is still irreligious in his heart—that Enjolras is well, and proceeds to the Pontmercy estate.

This is Grantaire’s first visit to Marius since he inherited. The mansion is an enormous one, easily four times the size of the entire building where Grantaire lets his little rooms.

But Marius and his wife, a beautiful blonde woman who is heavily pregnant with their second child, grins when he sees him. “Grantaire! My friend, how have you been?”

“Ill indeed, monsieur.” They make conversation for a while, Grantaire inquiring politely after the health of their daughter and Madame Pontmercy’s condition, before admitting, “Marius, I need to ask you for a favor. I would not impose on you for my own sake, but… an old friend of mine is gravely ill, and in debt, and—“ Grantaire’s heart twists.

He feels horrendous even for asking. He allowed his friendship with Pontmercy to fall to pieces after Enjolras’s disappearance, and hasn’t even seen the man since his wedding, and now he’s showing back up with his hand outstretched, exactly what the wealthy fear their old friends will become when they come to fortune. If it weren’t for Enjolras, he would rather die than become exactly what people think of him, a worthless drunk with no fortune but what his better friends indulge him with.

But he does have Enjolras. And he’d go door to door begging every man of means in Paris if it meant Enjolras would be safe.

“How much?” Pontmercy says. Grantaire can’t read his tone.

“A thousand francs,” Grantaire admits, unable to meet Pontmercy’s eyes, let alone the keener and sharper gaze of his wife.

“For the debt alone?”

“Yes.”

Marius nods at a manservant in the corner of the room. “Go fetch a purse of three thousand francs for my friend here.” He turns back to Grantaire. “This way, you need not worry about how you will make your own living, while you look after this friend. And if you are in need of more, I hope you will come to me right away.”

Grantaire stammers out thanks, not sure what to say. Marius waves his words away.

“When I was on the streets, it was the fellowship of the Amis that put a roof over my head, gave me a purpose, and brought me to my Cosette. Now that I have much more than I can ever need, I repay it where I can—above all, to those who were my brothers in that society.”

“I wish I could tell you the good you do,” Grantaire says, quietly, accepting the heavy purse.

“There is no need. I trust your silence is to a purpose, and you will tell us all when the time comes.”

Grantaire walks towards home, refusing the Pontmercy’s kind offer of a carriage. As he goes, he asks himself what Marius has guessed, and how. But as his steps take him closer and closer to home, there is only one question on his mind.

How has Enjolras fared, in his absence?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for: minor medical stuff, Grantaire's crippling depression

Grantaire knocks on the front door of his own flat, feeling ridiculous as he does, as it is, after all, his—but he hardly wants to sneak up on Enjolras. There is, to his utter lack of surprise, no answer, so he lets himself in. 

The flat is still and quiet, exactly as he left it. He does not see Enjolras at first.

He moves quietly and carefully, equally afraid of the possibility that he may startle Enjolras, and that he may fail to alert him to his presence and frighten him still worse. 

To his surprise, he finds Enjolras, not in any horrible predicament, but asleep on the bed. He is curled up on his side, his golden hair haloing his beautiful face. He's still dressed in Grantaire's trousers, his chest bare, but like this his scars seem somehow much less noticeable. He is breathing easily, his small breasts rising and falling with each movement. Grantaire makes a mental note to find out from Enjolras, if he can, how exactly he had managed to bind his breasts in the past, and make sure he has the supplies he needs to do so again if he wishes. 

And then he can't think of anything at all, because Enjolras lets out a quiet sigh of contentment in his sleep, wrinkling his nose and letting his lips fall slightly open, and Grantaire is so enraptured by his beauty that he forgets how to think.

God above, he looks so perfect like this. It's as if he never suffered at all, as if he had simply fallen asleep happily in Grantaire's bed. Except, of course, that Enjolras would never be so still, so quiet. 

No, Enjolras was always defined by activity and motion. He's always been the center of everything, the lode-star around which their world revolved. Even after he and Grantaire became intimate, Grantaire never saw him like this. He would take what he wanted from Grantaire, quick and eager, and then send him on his way.

This soft, vulnerable Enjolras is a sight Grantaire imagines few have been privileged to have.

That doesn't excuse Grantaire staring at him in this invasive fashion, though, so he forces his eyes away. He should be careful with things like this, he reminds himself. It might seem like looking at Enjolras is fairly harmless, but that doesn't matter. 

The point is that he shouldn't do anything that Enjolras wouldn't have been comfortable with beforehand, unless it's absolutely necessary for his health or Enjolras explicitly asks him to. 

As soon as he's thought through that, he feels a little bit better. Yes, that's the idea he's been missing, the point he has ben dancing around, trying to figure out how to articulate to himself. That's the golden rule he can use to make sure he isn't fucking this up.

First: Anything Enjolras asks for, in words or in any kind of clear non-verbal way, he gets.

Second: If he's in danger of physical injury beyond that, Grantaire will take care of it.

Third: Otherwise, Grantaire will try to treat him the way he imagines Enjolras would have wanted, before.

Those steps feel instinctively right to him. A way to triage all of the crises that every hour seems to contain now. A way to make the right decisions, without putting the most precious thing in the world (Enjolras's well-being) in the most incredibly fragile possible container (Grantaire's capacity for good judgement). It's too dangerous to just hope his good intentions will see them through, but if he knows the rules to follow, even if he's had to make them for himself, that may be enough. He'll pray it's enough. 

He'll make sure it is. 

He'll have to find a way to be what Enjolras needs, to be worthy of him. That's all there is to it. His love has always been the best part of him, and he can let its best impulses lead him, as long as he has some scaffolding to keep him secure. 

To keep him from incidentally doing harm to Enjolras, which is his worst fear. 

He trusts himself at least far enough to know that he would never hurt Enjolras knowingly. He couldn't. The very thought disgusts him. As much as he desires Enjolras, the only time he's even become aroused since finding him was when he was asleep, and could dream of Enjolras the way he used to be. So at least he knows he won't willingly take advantage of Enjolras's vulnerability. 

But Enjolras is still so, so very vulnerable. A wrong word or action could shatter him, perhaps... perhaps beyond repair. And that Grantaire cannot abide the merest thought of. 

Because, and Grantaire adds a fourth rule to his list, because everything has to be about getting Enjolras back to his self. His goal here can have nothing to do with what he, Grantaire, would want. It must be about returning Enjolras to the strong, healthy, passionate man he was before this ordeal.

Grantaire is again galled by the thought that, once all this is over, Enjolras will no doubt want nothing to do with him. Again and again, that idea has popped into his mind, and he can't help worrying at it, the way a tongue worries over a sore tooth. 

Now that he has a few moments of quiet, while Enjolras is sleeping peacefully, he forces himself to confront the idea directly. It takes a strength that Grantaire did not know that he possessed. But he does it.

When Enjolras is well again, he will never want to see Grantaire more. 

There. He's done it. Weak as he is, he has made himself confront the unthinkable. With every step that Enjolras takes back towards independence, he moves further from Grantaire. Grantaire is helping bring about his own worst fear. 

Because Enjolras is brave, and proud. He did not wish for Combeferre to see him in this state, because he values Combeferre's esteem too highly. As he does not, of course, value Grantaire's--that is why he had chosen Grantaire as a lover, so long ago. It is not so horrible for someone like Enjolras to be seen in his vulnerabilities by someone who he has no respect for. Someone like Grantaire. 

But, of course, when he is well again, he will be done with Grantaire. It is impossible to think that he could wish to return to the arrangement they had. No doubt he will not wish that sort of intimate contact with anyone.

And he'll probably resent Grantaire for all the mistakes he's made. Grantaire has done so much wrong already--forgetting that Enjolras's mouth was injured so he cut himself on the bread, not taking care this morning to ensure that Enjolras would not feel the need to perform fellatio on him. All out of ignorance or incompetence, not out of selfishness, but that doesn't excuse it. 

Besides, he's been ordering Enjolras around. He has no other option--he needs Enjolras to eat, and sleep, and not hurt himself--but there's no way that Enjolras won't see that as an overstep at best, a betrayal at the worst.

So Grantaire is counting down the days to his own destruction. When Enjolras is back to himself, Grantaire will be left behind.

Okay. Now he's thought it. He even says it out loud, quietly so as not to disturb Enjolras's rest. "Your job is to help him get better. Then he'll be gone."

And that's his problem to deal with, Grantaire's, not Enjolras's. He can't let his own sorrow at the thought of never seeing Enjolras again, at the knowledge that Enjolras will think of him, not with whatever fondness he may once have spared for Grantaire, but with painful resentment, stand in the way of giving Enjolras everything he needs, whatever Grantaire can give him. 

He will figure out how to get through it when the time comes. Or maybe he won't. But right now, worrying about that can only serve to distract him from much more important things--like Enjolras's care.

He spends the rest of Enjolras's nap taking care of some simple things around the apartment. He writes a note to his landlady, explaining that his sick cousin is going to be staying with him for a while, so not to worry if there is a second person in the apartment. No doubt she will assume that Enjolras is his mistress and this is a shallow excuse, but she'll probably let it slide. If not, thanks to Pontmercy's generosity, he can afford to move into a house of his own, but he'd rather not put Enjolras through that.

He puts in orders, via the ever-helpful Gavroche, for more furniture--two comfortable chairs, and a folding mat so that he can sleep a bit more comfortably--and some basic groceries. 

Now he needs to figure out how to actually get the money to the wretches who tortured Enjolras. He can hardly hand a thousand francs to a gamin, even one as generally trustworthy (in his own way) as Gavroche, and expect it to reach its destination. Nor can he send for Thenardier to come here. He'd die before he'd let that monster within a hundred yards of Enjolras. In fact, he is reluctant to go anywhere near Thenardier himself. He is concerned he might lose his temper and indulge in an act of violence that might not ultimately be in Enjolras's best interest. 

Instead, he sends a note informing the man that the money will be deposited with the bank by the next day, and that he may present a cheque to receive it at his own convenience. He'll have to leave Enjolras again, for another hour or two, to deposit some of what Pontmercy was good enough to give him, but it's the best solution he can think of.

He hears a quiet rustle from the other room, and goes to the doorway. As he'd expected, Enjolras has awoken. His hair is still mussed from sleep, and Grantaire is struck by the power of the urge he feels to run his fingers through it. He wouldn't dare, of course. 

"Hi, Enjolras," he says instead. "Are you okay? You can nod, or answer."

"Yes, sir." His voice is still husky--Grantaire will have to encourage him to speak, when he can, in the hopes that he will accustom himself to it again. 

"Let me get you something to drink."

Among the foods he sent for is fresh, full-fat milk, into which he stirs a generous teaspoon of honey. Enjolras needs nutrition, and Combeferre had counseled him to ensure Enjolras stayed as well-hydrated as possible, so he need not strain his injured parts any more while using the chamberpot. 

"I want you to drink as much of this as you can. Stop if your stomach begins to hurt, or if you don't feel good."

Enjolras takes the offered cup, and begins to sip at it, slowly. His eyes seem to light up at the taste, and Grantaire's heart breaks a little more. He wonders what they fed him, in that terrible prison. Probably not much--he's skin and bone. And he wonders what Enjolras imagined Grantaire was trying to feed him. 

And then he dismisses those thoughts as unhelpful.

He waits patiently while Enjolras drinks the entire cup of milk.

"That was very well done, Enjolras," Grantaire praises quietly. He doesn't know if it is welcome or not, if Enjolras is internally bristling at the condescension and just too afraid to show it, but he'd rather risk that than lose the chance to show Enjolras how much Grantaire treasures him while he can. "Now. I need to check on you a bit, at the advice of... of my doctor friend. Is that okay? You can always answer when I ask you a question."

"Yes, sir," Enjolras says, quietly. 

"Okay. Um." He hesitates. "I'm going to have to touch your... your intimate parts. I'm sorry about that. I can send for someone else, if you'd rather." It seems a strange favor to ask of Pontmercy, but surely his brain will eventually offer up another possibility, if it's what Enjolras wants. "And if you'd rather I didn't, I understand, it's just, the doctor wanted me to check and make sure you're not bleeding anymore, and..." Grantaire trails off, feeling deeply ashamed of himself. Yes, Enjolras's body is lovely, but Grantaire has never felt less moved by beauty in his life. He wants to run away and hide, rather than dare to touch him, especially when it can only cause him pain. 

"I want you to do it. Sir." 

It's the first time Enjolras has managed to express, affirmatively, that he wants something. That has to be good, even if it means that Grantaire is going to have to violate him in a way that he feels sick about. "Okay. Um. I'm going to get some oil. Can you take your trousers down a little? Perfect."

Wincing as he does, Grantaire oils up one finger, and presses it into Enjolras. He moves it around carefully, as Combeferre had instructed him to do, and feels no tears, no blood. Enjolras feels the same inside as he always has. 

"Okay. The other one now. Hang on."

He adds more oil to his finger for this part, and then slowly enters Enjolras's arse. Enjolras lets out a low groan of pain as Grantaire breaches him. 

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I'll be fast."

He does what Combeferre had instructed. The skin here is not as unmarred as the other, some parts feeling a bit thin and even torn, but when Grantaire withdraws his finger, there is no fresh red blood on it.

He dries off his hand on a towel. "Looks like you're okay. I'm really sorry about that."

"Thank you, sir," Enjolras says, his voice faraway and hollow, and Grantaire bites back the urge to cry. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content note: this chapter includes more explicit discussion of Enjolras's trans identity than past chapters have, and not all the language used is what we might choose today.

The next day passes in relative peace, insofar as any part of Grantaire's new life could be considered peaceful. Things have been chaotic ever since he first found Enjolras—in his life, and of course, in his heart, as he’s been consumed with worry about the depths of Enjolras’s suffering and how best to mitigate it, if he can. 

At least, this second full day that they have together, Enjolras doesn't seem to be in particularly profound distress. He sleeps through the night, with no more disturbances like the one that woke Grantaire their first morning together. When Grantaire wakes up—unusually early, as it is impossible that he could sleep soundly knowing that Enjolras is there—Enjolras is already awake, lying perfectly still in the bed. He is trembling slightly, and Grantaire, though he’s still half-asleep after a fitful night, takes only a moment to realize what’s wrong. 

“You should use the chamberpot,” he orders, and turns away so he doesn’t have to see the gratitude in Enjolras’s eyes at the permission. 

Yet Enjolras does not seem to be in the same kind of distress that he was at first. He is silent, and half-naked, and his eyes follow Grantaire around the room whenever he thinks Grantaire isn’t looking, but for their new world, that’s little enough to worry about.

Grantaire occupies himself with all the ways he can conceive of to make Enjolras more comfortable. He sets up the new furnishings—a pair of soft chairs, a second bed to be wedged into the room. He’d be just as happy to keep to the floor, but he imagines Enjolras might object. He prepares food and orders Enjolras to eat. Small, spare amounts, at short intervals, just as Combeferre instructed him. Nothing too rich, but sweets and starches, to hopefully put some flesh back on Enjolras so that his body can heal from everything he’s been through. He orders Enjolras to use the bathroom at regular intervals. He does what he has to do, as the person who is taking care of Enjolras. 

It is a sacred, and hopefully very temporary, trust. He reminds himself that with any luck this will be over soon, and Enjolras will be back to himself, but in the meantime, he needs this. 

It’s easier for Grantaire to stomach it when he thinks of it that way. As though caring for himself is merely a task that does not suit Enjolras at present, his time being far too important to remember when he needs to eat and sleep and void his bladder. It’s been delegated to Grantaire to remember those things for him, to remind him. For now. Hopefully not for long.

Yes, if he thinks of it that way, he can very nearly stand this, he thinks. At least for the time it will take to get Enjolras back to himself. 

Which is the real problem. He knows that will not be easy, nor can it be accomplished simply by wishing it so. Perhaps time and good treatment could eventually bring Enjolras back to a semblance of himself, but Grantaire doubts it—and it would be the height of cowardice to allow Enjolras to suffer any longer than need be simply because Grantaire wished to take the path of least resistance. 

He needs to begin encouraging Enjolras to get back to himself. It will be a difficult balance, because too much pressure will no doubt cause him pain and fear. If his ordinary way of being has been tortured out of him, Grantaire cannot simply order him to resume it without making things even worse.

Neither can he neglect this and hope time will heal these wounds. 

Then it’s time for a difficult conversation, one he has been delaying as long as he thinks he can. 

Obviously, there is much to worry about when it comes to Enjolras’s well-being, but one thing stands out to him as especially pressing—the matter of Enjolras’s gender. 

Grantaire has always thought of Enjolras as a man. Perhaps it helps that he grew up obsessed with the mythology of the Greeks and the Romans, reading the myths of Hermaphroditus and Iphis and, painfully relevant now, Caenus. The idea that one’s sex need not match one’s parts was not unfamiliar to him.

Perhaps it is simpler than that. Maybe it is the fact that he adores Enjolras so entirely. He cannot stand to think of Enjolras being anything other than what he is. 

Of course, when they first met, he did not know that Enjolras had a woman’s form. Certainly he had a woman’s beauty, with that perfectly sculpted face, but he hid his shape carefully beneath his clothes, and his manners were all those of a man. 

It was not until Enjolras had bade him stay after a meeting one night that he had learned the secret. Enjolras had sat across the table from him, looking him plain in the eyes. “You desire me, Grantaire,” he had said. “Deny it not.”

“How could I?” Grantaire had answered, enraptured as always by the force of this man before him. “As you have said, it is plain to see. Will you cast me from your company for my perversion, fair Apollo?”

“Hardly. I would make some use of it. Only, before we do, I must extract your promise to secrecy.”

“Anything,” Grantaire promised, his mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. 

Enjolras had scoffed at him a little and explained. “I was born a girl. I am not a woman in disguise, I am a man who was born in the wrong body. No one knows of this. I expect you to keep it a secret, but I can hardly hide it from you if we are to consummate this dalliance.”

And consummate it they had, in some of the fondest memories of Grantaire’s life… but those sweet recollections serve no purpose today. 

He needs to determine how he can give Enjolras back the dignity of his own identity. Enjolras has been treated as little more than an object, but whatever marks of humanity were given to him, whenever he was spoken to, or permitted clothes to wear, they were those that would befit a woman, not a man. The first step in restoring him to what he once was must be to offer him that choice. 

Grantaire knows this is the right choice, but that does not ease his fear that he will somehow make a misstep and harm Enjolras further. Why the universe chose to entrust a clumsy fool like himself with this most delicate and precious of tasks, he will never understand. Perhaps it is proof that someone above has a sense of humor. He only wishes it did not have to come at Enjolras’s expense too.

He waits until they are both sitting at the table, Grantaire working on a sketch (solely for the look of the thing, so that they’re doing something other than staring at each other), and Enjolras sitting perfectly still, hands folded in his lap. 

“Can I ask you something, Enjolras? You can answer.”

“Yes, sir,” Enjolras says, his voice still husky from disuse. 

“Do you recall, before… some time ago, you used to wear a special corset? It was designed to flatten your chest.” He has chosen this as the easiest entry point into this conversation. A single, concrete item he can speak of. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember—tell me the name of the _corsetière_ who made it, if you recall.”

Enjolras does not look at him, but he reports a name and address readily.

“Thank you. Tell me if you think she would remember how to make the item.”

“Yes, sir. She was well-paid for her expertise and discretion.”

Grantaire can’t help but feel a flutter of hope in his chest that, for the first time, Enjolras has answered a question with more than the bare minimum number of words required to follow the order. He decides to push forward a little bit, though he can feel his heart racing in his chest. 

He’s careful to hide his anxiety from Enjolras. He doesn’t need to put any more burdens upon him, not with everything he’s already carrying. 

“If I were to send for such a thing, would you wish to wear it again? Or would it be too painful, with…” 

Enjolras’s body has been so mistreated, covered in lashes and scars, it may never again be possible for him to compress his bosom as he once did. And Grantaire doesn’t even know if he still wishes to present himself in the same fashion as he did before his captivity. 

Enjolras doesn’t answer at once. Grantaire hadn’t really been expecting him to, not with how difficult it is for him to speak. Grantaire has to remind himself to be patient, to give Enjolras the time and space he needs to find his words. 

Enjolras’s silence goes on for a while, the air between the two of them growing painfully tense. Grantaire begins to curse his own stupidity. He should never have presumed to ask Enjolras so personal a question. Just because he thinks of Enjolras’s masculinity as essential to himself doesn’t mean Enjolras does, doesn’t mean he even wants to go back to dressing as he used to. And certainly he need not wish to discuss such a thing with _Grantaire,_ something so intimate. Grantaire should have left it alone until Enjolras were able to ask after it himself. If he was going to encourage Enjolras to begin making choices, to experiment with self-advocacy, he should have done so most gently, with simpler matters like food, or a color of shirt, not something so important.

And no doubt it was a miscalculation to draw _any_ attention to Enjolras’s body after the way he has been abused. He’s still bare from the waist up, since Grantaire was worried about putting pressure on the whip marks, and he isn’t speaking. “Forget I said anything,” Grantaire says, couching it, selfishly, as an order. Maybe Enjolras will be able to do just that, and they can leave this mistake, no doubt one of many that Grantaire will make, behind them. 

“No, sir, _please,_ ” Enjolras says. His voice sounds even rougher than it has, almost broken. “Please, please, I’ll do anything.” 

Before Grantaire can fully wrap his dull brain around what is happening, Enjolras slides to the floor, landing on his knees with a painful-sounding thud. 

“Anything you want, sir, I promise, I’ll be so good. I’ll never wear it where you have to see it, I’ll remember my place, I promise, sir, please, if there’s anything I could do to earn it, please—“

Grantaire follows Enjolras to the floor, sitting cross-legged across from him. He’s not sure whether to be relieved that Enjolras is finally talking or disturbed at the nature of what he’s saying. No doubt, both will suit. He forces himself to take a breath. “Enjolras, you don’t have to beg.”

That was the wrong thing to say, as Enjolras flinches, his jaw closing with an almost audible force. He looks down, trembling a little bit, no doubt expecting to be punished for daring to speak without a direct order.

Grantaire reminds himself not to reach out for him. Whatever longing he might feel, it would not comfort Enjolras now, only frighten him. “I’ll send a _gamin_ to that address with your name and request the garment be delivered here as soon as may be. If there is anything else you desire, anything that would make you more comfortable, you have only to—not ask, simply let me know. Certainly you need not beg. Nod if you understand.”

Enjolras nods.

“I am… I am so pleased you are speaking again, Enjolras. I hope you’ll be able to continue. And I’ll send for the corset at once, all right? I promise.”

Enjolras nods again. Grantaire can’t help but notice that there are tears in the corners of his eyes, but he determines it is better not to comment upon them. No doubt, if Enjolras could speak for himself, he would rather they go unnoticed, and Grantaire is nothing if not obedient to his whims. 


	10. Chapter 10

It doesn’t take long for the clothes to arrive. There’s not just a corset—there’s also three full sets of clothes for Enjolras, made to his measure by the seamstress he used to see. Grantaire understands, from an off-hand remark Enjolras made once, that this is rather a specialized procedure. He has his clothes tailored particularly to hide any hint of a feminine shape beneath them, though his slim frame and height also makes that somewhat easier. 

He gives the clothes to Enjolras and asks him to change, if he wants to. Grantaire excuses himself, in the interim, to the other room, wishing to give Enjolras some privacy to make up his mind and change if he chooses to.

It’s only a minute later that Enjolras appears in the doorway. The sight of him takes Grantaire’s breath away. 

For a moment, it’s possible to imagine that the Enjolras he found is the same Enjolras he lost. Certainly he looks the part. He’s resplendent in crisp black trousers and a clean white shirt, under the signature red jacket that so sets off his pale skin and rosy lips. He’s even pulled his hair back, as he used to, in a leather tie, so that Grantaire can see the full glory of his features. 

But the illusion isn’t quite perfect. Enjolras is still barefoot, for one thing—Grantaire will need to get him boots—and, more importantly, the expression of anxious curiosity on his face is one that Enjolras would never have worn in the olden days. 

“Everything fit okay?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras nods quickly. Grantaire can tell that the clothes are a little big for him, given all the weight he had lost in captivity, but he has decided it’s not worth pressing the point. If Enjolras wants better-fitting garments later, they’ll be his for the asking. For now, it’s not worth the potential trauma of signing him up to be examined and measured. 

It’s unusual that Enjolras is just standing there, looking at him. Usually he’s quick to fold himself out of the way as much as possible, as if hoping not to be noticed. 

“I have. A question.”

The shock of Enjolras speaking without a direct order is such that it takes Grantaire a moment to find his voice. When he does, though, he’s careful to be calm, for Enjolras’s sake. “Of course. Ask anything you like.”

“You haven’t fucked me,” Enjolras says, blankly. “Why not?”

Oh. Grantaire had judged that Enjolras was not yet ready for this conversation, that it was too soon to press him to discuss the details of the trauma that he had undergone—but if he’s bringing it up, then it’s Grantaire’s responsibility to meet him where he is, even if Grantaire himself isn’t quite ready to discuss this either. Before they can get into the broader issues at play, though, Grantaire needs to reassure Enjolras that he isn’t about to be hurt. He’s fidgeting visibly, no doubt worried he’ll be beaten for daring to speak out of turn. “I’m glad you asked, Enjolras. It’s a simple answer, though… though I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a bit confusing, and we can talk about it more. Can I ask you a question in turn?”

Enjolras nods again. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

Enjolras’s expression—fear and disgust—tells Grantaire everything he needs to know. It twists at some selfish part of Grantaire to see his beloved look like that at the thought of being intimate with him, but Grantaire forces that feeling down. This isn’t about him. “No, sir,” Enjolras whispers. 

“There you have your answer, then. I will never—could never—do anything to you that you didn’t want. I will always do my best not to hurt you. Do you understand?”

Enjolras shakes his head minutely.

“That’s okay. I figured this would probably be confusing, but maybe we should have had this conversation sooner.” He hesitates, looking for the right place to begin. “Enjolras, how much do you remember about… about before?”

“I remember everything, sir,” Enjolras says, and there’s a firm certainty in his voice that means it’s impossible for Grantaire to doubt him, even though the idea of Enjolras addressing him as a superior would have been positively laughable in the time before. 

“Can you… okay. I feel like we’re coming at this from different angles. Do you feel like you can explain, in your words, what happened to you? It’s fine if the answer is no.”

Enjolras chews on his lower lip for a moment. The gesture makes him look impossibly young and vulnerable, more words no one in their right mind would ever ordinarily use to describe Enjolras. “I can, sir,” Enjolras answers, and Grantaire internally curses himself. 

Right. Clarity. Surely he can get that right, for Enjolras’s sake. “Then please do, if you feel able to.”

Enjolras begins. He speaks slowly, with none of the passion and fire that once illuminated his speeches. It’s clear that he’s choosing every word with care. “I was… mad. I thought… I thought it would be possible for me to… to be a free man. To do as I wished. To make the world better, even. Then I was taken, and… apprised of my error. Shown my… true place. It was… difficult. I was bad. By the time I learned, I was broken. I had to repay them for the trouble. They set me to work, doing the only thing a…”

Grantaire wants to tell him to stop. Every word is obviously causing him agony to repeat, and it’s no small measure of pain for Grantaire to hear him recite these twisted lies that must have been beaten into him, to imagine the torture it must have taken to warp someone as self-willed and composed as Enjolras into believing these things about himself. But he also suspects that he needs to know this, if he is to help Enjolras break free of the silent terror that has defined their time together so far. 

“Doing the only thing a whore like me is any good for.” Enjolras’s face softens. “Then you came, sir. You bought me. You brought me here, and you’ve been so kind to me. I only… I don’t understand why.”

“Do you remember me from before?”

Enjolras nods, to Grantaire’s surprise. He would have thought any memory of the love he had for Enjolras would be utterly contrary to Enjolras’s evident belief that Grantaire had purchased him as an outlet for his lust. Then again, perhaps he remembers only the acts, and not the feelings that accompanied them. 

“Can you tell me what you remember?”

“You were always… very kind to me. Played along with my… delusions. That I could be…” Enjolras swallows visibly. “More than what I am. How you all must have laughed at me behind my back. A harlot playing at being a hero.”

“No,” Grantaire says, and it’s the first time he’s allowed any sharpness to leak into his voice when he’s speaking to Enjolras. “No, listen, Enjolras, okay? This is really important, I need you to understand.”

Enjolras nods obediently, his mouth slamming shut. Grantaire feels a moment’s guilt for having given him an order the so clearly contravened his will, but he’s sure it’s important that he explain this to Enjolras. 

“None of us _ever_ thought you any less than we are. I worshipped the ground you walk on, I still do. The fact of your sex at birth does not change that. The abuses you have suffered could not. Nothing will ever change the esteem and regard I hold you in. You _are_ a hero, Enjolras. To your revolution, for all you did in the name of the freedom and liberty of your fellow men. And to have survived what you’ve been through, that’s heroic too.” 

A thought occurs to Grantaire. It’s terrible, but he’s fairly sure he’s right. 

“Is this why you were so frightened of the idea of seeing Combeferre?”

Enjolras nods. “I know how you must all think of me, now that you know what I am. But the memory of being… something more… it’s all I have. You were very kind not to force me.”

“I will never force you to do anything you do not wish,” Grantaire promises. “But, Enjolras, I don’t think any less of you for what you’ve been through, and I’m sure the others wouldn’t either.”

Enjolras falls silent again, and Grantaire knows he’s gone too far. He curses himself wordlessly—of all the few boundaries that Enjolras has been able to set, he still decided to push against them. What is wrong with him? 

“But if you don’t want to see the Amis, I understand, and you don’t need to. Not until you’re ready, even if that’s never.” 

Enjolras starts to cry a little bit, tears leaking silently from his eyes. Grantaire tries not to think about how he must have trained himself to do that, how he must have learned to fear making the slightest noise even when he’s in pain. 

“Can I tell you a different story?” Grantaire asks. “You needn’t believe it, but I want you to hear it.”

Enjolras nods.

“You are a brilliant and brave leader of your fellow men. Despite an unfortunate condition of birth, you managed to create the life you wanted, not just for yourself, but to lead others on the same path to freedom. Your courage was an unfailing inspiration to many, especially those of us fortunate enough to have some measure of your friendship.” 

Grantaire pauses, clearing his throat and looking for the right words.

“Then you were kidnapped by villains. Because of your physical beauties, they realized that abusing you could prove profitable for them. They tried as hard as they could to reduce you from yourself. You were beaten, ravished, and tortured. Your identity, your very self, was denied to you. You were sold like a piece of property. They did this because they were cruel and greedy and because they could, and they lied to you and hurt you again and again until you came to believe the vicious cruelty that you had somehow merited this mistreatment.”

Grantaire watches Enjolras’s reaction. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. That face is as sculpted as marble, and as unmoving. 

“I was fortunate enough to find you in their captivity. I have tried to rescue you from any further abuse, and I will do whatever I can to restore you to as much of your former self as possible, or as you wish. But, regardless, Enjolras, you must know this. You never merited any of that treatment. They hurt you because of their own monstrous natures, not because there was any part of yourself that deserved to be hurt thus. No one would ever deserve such treatment, and I think if you search your own feelings on the matter, you will know as much.”

This last is a bit of a gamble, but Grantaire is hoping that enough of the idealism persists within Enjolras that he’ll see it the same way—that he’ll be able to connect his belief in the fair treatment of all people to the understanding that he himself could never have deserved to be hurt the way that he has. 

“I realize I have not said this clearly, so let me do so now. You are free, Enjolras. Completely. If you wish to walk out that door and never come back, it is your choice to do so. I hope that you will not, because I would worry about you taking on the world alone in your current state, but I certainly will not try to prevent you. If I ask you to do something and you choose not to do it, that is fine. I will probably celebrate that you are beginning to come back to yourself. If you do not want to do something, you need not. And I will never, ever do anything to harm you. Do you understand?”

Enjolras shakes his head. 

“That’s okay,” Grantaire says, though the hope is dimming painfully in his chest. “I know it’s a lot to take in, and there’s no pressure to understand it all at once. We’re going to get you there together.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, and for a moment Grantaire feels hopeful again—a second time speaking without a command, before Enjolras follows it up with—“Sir. I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“You deserve the world laid at your feet, Enjolras. I hope one day you’ll see it again.” 

_And if you never do, if the harm that has been done to you cannot be undone, I will still be by your side, every step of the way. You will never walk alone again, not the way you endured alone through the horrors that have turned you into this fearful and broken creature._

Grantaire makes this last vow silently, to himself. He has known since the beginning that there would be some chance that Enjolras would never be again what he once was. Today’s conversation seems like progress in some regards, as Enjolras was able to articulate his feelings, but it also revealed the depth to which his thoughts about himself were sickened and distorted by his ordeal. 

It may be that that kind of damage will not heal the way Enjolras’s physical wounds are healing. And if that is the case, Grantaire stands ready to remain by Enjolras’s side, as long as he is permitted. 


	11. Chapter 11

That conversation is a true turning point for both of them, and Grantaire curses himself for not being quick enough to hold it beforehand. Had he known how much more comfortable Enjolras would be, how much he evidently needed the assurance that, no, Grantaire had no intention of repeating the harm that was done to him in his captivity, he would have leapt to do it as soon as he’d found Enjolras, instead of allowing Enjolras to wait in what must have been a painful and anxious uncertainty for nearly a week. 

That is not to say that things are perfect from that point onward. Indeed, there is still much that is uncertain, even difficult. 

It’s certainly a relief that Enjolras no longer expects to be beaten or raped at any moment, but that doesn’t mean things go smoothly from that point onward. 

The worst part is the nights. Enjolras often has trouble falling asleep, and Grantaire is kept awake by his rapid, almost panicked breathing. It’s not possible for him to relax, not when he knows that the man he loves is next to him, suffering every moment. He wants to help, but doing more just disturbs Enjolras further. So they both lie there, sometimes for hours at a time, unable to sleep. 

When Enjolras finally does doze off, more often than not he’s awakened by nightmares. He never volunteers the content of his dreams, and Grantaire doesn’t pry—after so long having his privacy and dignity stripped away from him, it is the least that Grantaire can do to respect Enjolras’s silence on the matter now. 

But it’s hard not to worry when, two or three nights in a row, Enjolras awakens him screaming at the top of his lungs, still asleep as his entire body trembles while he shrieks and shakes. 

When Grantaire gently rouses him, his eyes stare straight ahead, as if he’s not seeing him, and he trembles and cries. Sometimes he wets the bed. 

After these episodes, Enjolras is always grimly self-reflective, as if ashamed, though again Grantaire doesn’t presume to know for certain what he feels, since he’s silent more often than not. If he’s soiled himself, he changes his clothes, back turned to the wall, strips off the bedsheets and places fresh new ones, and apologizes in a low mumble, no matter how many times Grantaire tries to help or tells him it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. 

“You’re hurt, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, almost exasperated. “It’s no more shameful than recovering from any other injury.”

Enjolras looks up at him when he says that, finally taking his eyes off the ground, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Nor does Grantaire push him any further. He doesn’t want to put any undue pressure on Enjolras to feel better before he’s ready to. Instead, he tries to remind himself to be patient with the Enjolras that is here now. An Enjolras who can sometimes speak or act without permission, but who often needs reassurance that that’s okay. Who answers questions only in short bursts, not in the full sentences or, not at all. Who eats only when he’s prompted to. Who is still much too thin. 

This is still Enjolras. This is still the man that Grantaire loves more than anything else in the world. 

And he won’t let anyone or anything take that from him. Certainly not the monsters who tried to shatter Enjolras’s soul.

Enjolras is getting better. He doesn’t seem more like himself. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he does seem more like a person. He stands a little taller. He talks a little easier. He doesn’t flinch quite as readily.

The improvement is such that Grantaire is able to start suggesting a few more changes, ones he hopes will accelerate Enjolras being able to return to his former self. He asks Enjolras, for example, to address him by name, rather than calling him ‘sir’ every time he speaks. It’s clear that this is an effort for Enjolras, and the first time he forgets, and then flinches like he expects to be beaten senseless for the slip, Grantaire regrets ever saying anything. 

But Enjolras is as clever as ever, and he’s able to make the switch relatively quickly. 

Grantaire is also able to convince him to sit on the furniture, especially the comfortable chair he’d had delivered for just such a purpose, instead of returning to kneel on the floor whenever he’s not occupied with some task. This he seems able to do without fear. 

The best change, though, is that Enjolras is beginning to do more without direct orders to do so. After his bravery in speaking up a few days before—his courageous question about why Grantaire doesn’t want to touch him intimately—he has spoken without prompting several more times. He has begun to perform some basic tasks, sitting and standing and using the chamberpot, without waiting for Grantaire to tell him what to do. 

He still waits for commands for bigger things, of course—he won’t dress, or go to bed, or eat, without an order. But it’s a relief to Grantaire not to constantly be reminding himself to ensure that Enjolras is physically safe and comfortable at every second, and he has to imagine it’s a good sign that he is able to care for himself at least this much.

It takes them a little closer to the moment when Enjolras will no longer need him, and thus presumably no longer wish to have him around. 

Grantaire can’t think of that without pain, but he makes himself face up to it. This is a very temporary situation, and it is his duty to pursue the end of it as quickly as possible. He owes that much to Enjolras, to restore him to himself as completely and as quickly as he can. If Enjolras wants nothing to do with him afterward, as he most likely will not, Grantaire will deal with that then. And if Enjolras needs this much care for the rest of his life, then Grantaire will provide it, with all the devotion Enjolras is owed. 

So he keeps moving forward, carefully but with determination, to the goal of a healed and independent Enjolras. 

That means, he realizes, finding a way for them both to spend their days that will be as productive as possible. 

Thanks to the generosity of Pontmercy, Grantaire is able to focus his time on helping Enjolras recover. He does not need to paint. A part of him misses it, but he’s too busy helping Enjolras. He sketches to occupy the time, partially to keep his skills fresh and partially simply to give himself something to do other than staring at Enjolras in longing and adoration every minute of every day. He tells himself not to draw Enjolras, because that’s unpleasantly invasive, but of course more than a few of his sketches end up resembling him. He is the face of every god, of every hero that they loved, of every angel sent from heaven. 

Enjolras, too, needs more to occupy his time. He can’t return to his previous revolutionary activities yet, of course. Grantaire would rather he never did, given the risk to his health and safety, but he’ll help him resume his work as soon as he is able. In his current state, unable to speak up for himself or even sleep through the night, he isn’t ready.

But he needs to do more than sit around the house, watching Grantaire with visible nervousness on his face, eating when Grantaire orders him to and having nightmares whenever he tries to sleep. Indeed, the insomnia is probably at least partially due to a lack of activity.

Grantaire is afraid to suggest anything Enjolras might do, for fear that he might take it as an order, but he also knows that Enjolras is unlikely to spontaneously take up fencing or knitting or anything else. 

So he comes up with something of a way around it, one that he hopes will work, though he’s certainly made missteps aplenty so far.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras looks at him in the way he’s developed of saying—without saying—that he is listening.

“I was wondering if you could do something for me.”

He nods. “Yes, s—Yes, Grantaire. Anything you’d like.”

Grantaire hides a smile, pleased not just that Enjolras is calling him by his name, but that he hadn’t apologized for or acknowledged his slip. He’s hopeful that means he’s starting to improve. “I have a list of some things I know you used to like to do, before, and some I like. I was wondering if you feel like you could go through the list for me, and note which things you think you’d like to do again, and which ones you think might be frightening or difficult?”

He’s prepared the list with care. There are about twenty activities on it, everything from “dining at a restaurant” to “walking along the Seine” to “reading the classics”. He’s selected everything he knows was a favorite of Enjolras’s—not that the man had a wealth of hobbies beyond ‘making the world a better place by sheer force of will’—and a few other things he hopes will be pleasant. Next to the list are two additional columns, one labeled ‘pleasant’ and the other ‘difficult,’ since he imagines there are some things Enjolras would like to do but might be frightened of, and some that are easy but uninteresting. This way, all he has to do is check off the boxes, and Grantaire will have an idea of what things he can suggest. 

He hands Enjolras the paper, and gestures at the quill and ink laid out on the table. “Does this make sense?”

Enjolras nods. “You want me to… say which things would be rewards, and which punishments?”

Grantaire bites back a sigh. After a few weeks of this, it is no longer horrifying to hear Enjolras say such things, just a little worrying. He’s become somewhat immune to the fact that Enjolras’s expectation is always that the world—and Grantaire—are looking for new ways to hurt him. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, or sadden him, to think of how badly Enjolras’s life and mind have been distorted by his ordeal. “I’m never going to punish you, and if there’s anything you want, you need only to ask. I just… I want to figure out some more things we can do, to help you get used to being on your own again. And I thought this might be an easier way, than… than asking you to just come up with a list, without any guidance. Maybe I was foolish.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything in response to that, but he sits down at the table and begins filling out the list, so Grantaire can only hope that means that he understands.

So as to avoid staring at Enjolras, he goes over to the countertop and begins tidying up the things he’d brought in for their luncheon. There is some bread and butter left, that will make a fine breakfast for tomorrow, and perhaps he can bring the rest of the chicken to the landlady to make into soup, which he tries to get Enjolras drinking for the fat and nutrition as often as possible. He is still much too thin for a man of his height. 

He hears Enjolras’s quill stop scratching at the parchment. 

“Done?” He says, careful to keep the question light, not demanding or forceful.

“Yes.” Enjolras offers him back the scroll, and he reads it over. 

Enjolras—honest as ever, has marked every single thing on the list as ‘frightening’. In the margin, he has written, in his neat script, “Some are less frightening than others.”

He’s also marked several as “pleasant,” especially those that involve going outside the flat. 

This confirms Grantaire’s suspicions. 

“I think it might be time for us to venture beyond these four walls. How do you feel about that?” He proposes. 

“It frightens me, as I said,” Enjolras answers frankly. “But I would like that very much, if you’ll allow it.”

“You’re allowed to do anything you want, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, determined to echo the sentiment every chance he gets. 

As usual, Enjolras does not respond.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everybody! It's been NaNo. 
> 
> Short chapter but I wanted to get something up.

He has to help Enjolras dress. It does not surprise Grantaire that Enjolras cannot bring himself to express an opinion about his wardrobe, leaving Grantaire the only one who can can make these decisions.

He determines that it is probably for the best to help Enjolras into his typical wardrobe from before. Trying to pass Enjolras off as a woman is too likely to lead to uncomfortable reactions from others on the street, and might be taken the wrong way by Enjolras himself. The strange mish-mash of attire he is accustomed to wearing about the flat will attract too much attention from passers-by. And Enjolras generally seems happiest when he looks the most like his old self.

He lays out Enjolras’s clothes for him on the bed, which feels a bit strange, but Enjolras doesn’t comment on it. Not that he expected him to, of course.

Grantaire goes into the other room and waits for him there, trying not to let the nervous thoughts take over. The idea of leaving the rooms together is a bit nerve-wracking. There is so much that can go wrong. Enough goes wrong in the safe confines of their home. Once they’re outside, there will be more outside of his control, including other people. And one of those people could hurt Enjolras.

Of course, he can’t keep Enjolras locked up here just because he wants to keep him safe. But he’d be lying if he pretended he weren’t frightened of what might happen out in the world, a world that has not exactly been kind to Enjolras.

Those thoughts go flying out of his head when Enjolras steps out of the bedroom.

He’s wearing tight black breeches under black leather boots that go nearly up to his knee. His loose-fitting white shirt hides the corset he wears, but it’s open at the throat, revealing that well-sculpted collarbone that Grantaire has always thought was one of Enjolras’s best features. On the long list of them, of course.

Grantaire makes himself stop staring. He doesn’t want to make Enjolras feel uncomfortable, and looking at him with anything approaching desire is probably one of the worst things he could do for his beloved. But he doesn’t miss the way Enjolras’s eyes drop to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras mumbles.

“Whatever for? You’ve done nothing wrong,” Grantaire assures him, but that doesn’t seem to register. Enjolras still isn’t looking at him, though, admittedly, he rarely makes direct eye contact these days.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“What?” Grantaire isn’t understanding.

“You want me to.” Enjolras stops, shifts where he’s standing, and swallows hard. “I thought, at first, that you would want to hurt me. The way all the rest of them had. I knew I hadn’t always been very kind to you in the past, and thought you might want revenge. Or just to act out those desires that I hadn’t been willing to give you, that I knew you had. For me. But that isn’t it.”

Well, at least that _sounds_ like a good thing, if Enjolras is understanding enough to know that Grantaire has no intention of taking advantage of him physically. But there’s something else on his mind, clearly.

He’s come so far, at least in his ability to express himself in words. Grantaire still remembers the wordless Enjolras he had first brought home. But that doesn’t mean this is easy for him. The best way, Grantaire has found, is to stand still and quiet, and be as patient as possible. Enjolras needs time to figure out the words he wants to say, to work through the fear that there will be some sort of dreadful consequence for doing so, and to break the conditioning that taught him speaking at all was forbidden.

“You want me to go back to being the way I was before,” Enjolras manages. “And I’m afraid I can’t. I thought maybe I could pretend to be back to normal, but I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire’s mind is spinning at that. There’s so much going on in those few sentences, so many fears and anxieties and everything else, that he wants to make sure he’s handling this right. “Um, I think we should sit down for this, Enjolras. This is a little bit of a conversation, and it’s probably one we should have had a long time ago, so that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras just looks at him, like his apology doesn’t make any sense, but he does follow Grantaire to the table and sit down across from him. It’s a start, Grantaire supposes.

“Okay. I’m sorry I didn’t make this clear at the start, but I was trying not to overwhelm you with too much stuff right off the bat. I wanted to make sure you knew you were physically safe, and that I wouldn’t hurt you and I’m glad that’s sunk in. But I’m sorry if you thought that went along with expectations that you can’t fulfill.” Grantaire takes a deep breath and says the words he’s been avoiding speaking for as long as he can remember. “I love you, Enjolras. I have since the day we first met, and I probably always will. And it’s not because of the way you look, or because you’re a great leader, or anything else that could change or that can be taken away from you. It’s because of you. And that’ll always be true. No matter what happens, no matter what changes you face. I’m still going to love you. And I’m still going to want to help you if I can. And I’m still going to care about you. And there’s nothing I expect or even want in return, except for you to be happy. But there’s no obligation for that, either. Just… if I can help I will. Not because I want anything from you, but because I care about you. Um. That’s all. I know that’s a lot to put on you.”

Enjolras blinks, once, slowly, and says nothing. There would have been a time when that would have been just about the worst thing Grantiare could imagine—him making his big confession of love, and Enjolras not reacting at all. That seems pretty naive now, knowing what he knows. Knowing how much worse things could be. At least Enjolras isn’t in pain, isn’t naked and being hurt, isn’t terrified of him.

“I’m doing a shitty job explaining this,” Grantaire says with a sigh. “Look, here’s the thing. All I want is to help you be happy. You don’t owe me a thing for that. I feel like… I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but I feel like one of the things that sort of… got absorbed, in that place, was some kind of idea that other people are…. Are above you somehow. That it would be okay for me to hurt you, or take advantage of you, that you… are somehow less than others. And that’s not true. It’s never been true.”

If anything, Enjolras is a thousand times more and greater than Grantaire could ever be, but he figures that’s probably a bit too far to push matters. Instead, he sticks with a belief he knows Enjolras would have agreed with, at least at one point.

“Everyone is equal, and you’re included in that. You have just as much value, just as much worth, as I do, and you don’t owe me a thing. I’m not above you. I don’t own you. If I did want you to go back to the way things were before, you still wouldn’t have to.”

Grantaire only realizes that his voice has become a little fervent when Enjolras mumbles, “Yes, sir.”

He would kick himself, if he could. Of course, the actual content of the words matters less than the tone, and raising his voice at all is bound to frighten Enjolras, no matter how well intentioned he is. Enjolras has come a long way, far enough to question him a little bit, to raise his anxieties openly, but not enough for Grantaire to lose control of himself like this. “I’m sorry,” Grantaire says. “I just… I just don’t want you to feel like you have to be anything other than what you are.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer. After a few moments, he whispers, “Can we still go out, sir?”

As if Grantaire would take that away from him as a punishment. Forget kicking himself, Grantaire would willingly walk into the Seine, except that he has a responsibility to Enjolras. “Of course,” Grantaire says. “You don’t need my permission for that. For anything.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. Grantaire sighs, and stands.

“Come on. Let’s go for a little bit of a walk.” He resolves to do better, to be more careful in reading Enjolras’s moods while they’re out. He won’t allow himself to become distracted by what he thinks he needs to say, by anything at all.

All the resolve in the worlds doesn’t prepare him for what awaits outside the safety of his rooms.

It is a pleasant day for a walk. The air is cool and clear, and there are few people out—Grantaire, counting on his fingers, is able to come to the conclusion that it’s mid-day on a Tuesday. Most folks are probably at school, at work, or at home. It’s a good thing that there aren’t too many people. The lack of crowds mean that Enjolras can stretch his legs and enjoy the fresh air without the problem of so many strangers around, looking at him, potentially endangering him.

Enjolras walks one pace behind Grantaire and at his left—no doubt another well-trained habit—but when Grantaire sneaks a glance back at him, there is a small smile playing over his features.

And then they stroll past the café at the corner of the street, and Grantaire hears a voice cry out, “Stop!”

He turns to see Combeferre, having just leapt to his feet, spilling his coffee all over his neat physician’s coat, his eyes locked on Enjolras.


	13. Chapter 13

Enjolras takes flight at once, turning and running back in the direction of the flat. Grantaire resists the impulse to give chase—he doesn’t want Enjolras to be alone, but he has to imagine that sprinting after him when he is already terrified would be about the worst thing he could do.

Instead, he turns back to Combeferre, whose usually mild eyes, hidden behind his spectacles, are ablaze with something worryingly like fury. 

Grantaire does not have time to deal with this. “Stay where you are,” he hisses at Combeferre. “Can’t you see you’ve frightened him?”

“I thought he was dead, I—“ Horror dawns in Combeferre’s eyes. “Is that—when you spoke to me before—“

It’s no one’s story but Enjolras’s to tell, and Grantaire wouldn’t dare reveal his secrets: the ordeal he’s been through, or the fact of his physical sex, without his permission. He simply turns and walks away from Combeferre. Let the doctor follow him if he will. 

He doesn’t even bother looking back to see if Combeferre is following him. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. Unless Combeferre actually tries to strike him, physically prevent him from getting back to Enjolras—which doesn’t happen—he is irrelevant compared to Grantaire’s need to care for his beloved. Everything is.

He gives Combeferre no more thought. Instead, he makes his way back to the flat, where he hopes to find Enjolras. He does not quite run there, afraid of running into Enjolras along the way and frightening him with too much urgency. He doesn’t want Enjolras to feel pursued—after all, he has every right to go where he wills. If he wants to take off and give Grantaire no sign of where he has been, that’s his right.

Grantaire just has to hope that Enjolras will have returned to the flat so that Grantaire can find him. So that he can take care of him, and also, selfishly, because he’s not sure how he’ll survive if Enjolras is gone without so much as a word or a farewell, without any indication that he’ll be all right. 

His wish is answered. Enjolras hasn’t actually gone back inside yet—he’s huddled in front of the door, his face hidden in his hands, trembling all over. He flinches visibly at Grantaire’s approach, at the sound of his booted footfalls, and Grantaire bites back the urge to beg for forgiveness. He shouldn’t have pushed Enjolras to go out so soon. Yes, Enjolras seemed excited about it, but it was too early, and he should have known. 

Now Enjolras is frightened of him, again. 

“Enjolras? Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

Enjolras only nods. He does not speak. Another obvious sign of the step back their ill-advised jaunt has sent him on. Grantaire can contain his rage with himself only with difficulty, and only by reminding himself that Enjolras will perceive any anger Grantaire shows as being directed at himself. It will make his fear worse, and Grantaire needs him calm enough to think clearly, to remember that he’s safe with Grantaire and that his torment is over. 

“Let’s get inside, okay?”  
Enjolras follows on his knees, but at least they get inside their own flat. With the door safely closed behind them, it seems less dangerous. Now Grantaire can take his time helping Enjolras settle down. 

“Good. Now, I’m going to sit right by you, all right? And you don’t have to do anything or worry about anything, I’ll just be right here.”

He lets Enjolras stay on his knees. It’s somewhat offensive to his sensibilities—really things ought to be the other way round, and Enjolras should never have to kneel—but he knows it’s not worth pushing, not with the state that Enjolras is in. As ever, he needs not worry about his own comfort, ideological or personal. This is about helping Enjolras recover from one of the things he had most feared—seeing one of the vestiges of his former life. Or rather, Grantaire suspects, being seen. He still doesn’t understand all the details of why, and neither is he much inclined to put any pressure on Enjolras to share, especially not at the moment, when it is clear that his beloved is barely holding himself together.

Grantaire sits quietly next to him for some time, while Enjolras kneels. He tries not to let himself worry or get ahead of the moment they’re in. There’s not much to do, really—he just has to wait for Enjolras to calm down enough that he’s able to have a conversation without fear, and then he can perhaps find out what he can do to help resolve at least some small measure of the fear Enjolras is currently dealing with. 

After about fifteen minutes, though, Enjolras has not relaxed at all out of his tense and practiced posture, and his breathing is still labored. Grantaire is beginning to suspect that time alone will do little to help in this situation. 

So he formulates a new plan. Being a good… whatever he is to Enjolras… requires a lot of flexibility, and the ability to think on his feet. In that sense, though in few others, perhaps Grantaire really is the right man for the task. That, and his absolute devotion to Enjolras, of course. 

It also requires him to be significantly more forceful than he is comfortable being, especially where Enjolras is concerned. But Enjolras needs him to be able to take charge, so he’ll do so. 

“Enjolras, I want you to do something for me, please.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, doesn’t even nod, but Grantaire can tell from the way his shoulders set that he’s paying attention now, broken out of whatever miserable haze he’d been in.

“If you can, I’d like you to tell me what I can do that will help. One thing that you’d like me to do. Please.”

Grantaire honestly isn’t sure that he’s really expecting an answer. Speech is hard for Enjolras even at the best of times, particularly talking about any details of his ordeal or any of his current desires. This would be a difficult request any day, and nearly an impossible one under Enjolras’s current state of stress. 

But whatever the answer, even if the answer is only silence, he’ll know something more than he knows now. If all he learns from this conversation is that Enjolras has grown too frightened even to speak, then he’ll know they need to start over, with nods and hand signals, right as they did at the beginning.

It would be difficult to do all of that over again, but of course Grantaire is happy to do it, if it is necessary. He just doesn’t want Enjolras to have to suffer through it—he knows it was stressful and confusing for him, and a second round of that, not moving his recovery forward at all, would be a shame.

But, to Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras opens his mouth and speaks. His head is still bowed, and he does not even glance upward at Grantaire as he addresses him, but at least he’s talking. 

“Please,” he says, his voice hoarse the way it often is when he’s tensed all over from the stress of whatever is going on in his mind. “I know you must be angry. But please, when you’re done punishing me, can I stay? With you?”

Grantaire is so shocked at those words that his mind goes blank for a second, which is quite obviously the wrong thing to be doing. He ought to be leaping right to reassuring Enjolras that this is his home now too, that he’s welcome to stay as long as he wants, and that of course no one will hurt him here, not ever, but he’s so surprised that for a minute he doesn’t say anything at all. 

So Enjolras continues. “I know I did the worst thing I could have done. Running is bad. I know that. I’m sorry. But it’s not because… I didn’t mean to run from you. I just… I just panicked, I… please, sir—“

Grantaire wants to give Enjolras the chance to express what he’s thinking, but he also can’t listen to any more of this. And he knows that it’s not doing Enjolras any favors to dwell in this abject terror. “Enjolras, I’m not going to hurt you. And you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Enjolras stops talking, but he’s shaking again now, looking even more frightened then before. Grantaire takes a steadying breath, knowing it’ll be up to him to fill in the silence. 

“You can go wherever you want. If you wanted to run off and never see me again, well, I wouldn’t like it much—I’d miss you, and I’d worry about you—but you’d be perfectly within your rights to. You’re a free man, as much as I am, and it’s your right to do as you please. To go where you will.” 

That doesn’t get any audible response either. Not, again, that Grantaire had expected much from it. That’s a pretty serious change in understanding to think Enjolras could undergo in just a few brief moments—from thinking that Grantaire was not only going to beat him, but also cast him out onto the street when he was finished, to accepting that his servitude and torment is over entirely and that Grantaire will always treat him with respect. That’s not fair to expect, though Grantaire can’t help hoping for it. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Grantaire repeats. “I don’t want to. No part of me finds any pleasure in the thought of inflicting any harm on you. All I want from you is that, as much as you can, you can learn to be safe and happy once more. Can you believe as much?”

Enjolras isn’t quite looking up at him, but that doesn’t mean Grantaire can’t see the expression of skepticism on his face. He just has to hope that all of his care for Enjolras, and perhaps the half-remembered intimacy they had shared from before Enjolras’s captivity, will help him eventually come to accept the truth of what Grantaire is saying. It breaks his heart that Enjolras is still living in fear of him. 

“And, as to the other thing, it’s important you know this, I suppose. My home is not much, as you can see.” It’s actually rather embarrassing that he has no better lodging to offer to his idol. If he could, he would give Enjolras the finest palaces in the world to dwell in. “But it is yours. Anything I have is yours.”

To his surprise, Enjolras actually answers him back, even though it wasn’t a direct question. “I think it’s the other way around.” He ducks his head further down, as if expecting Grantaire to react to his perceived disobedience—speaking without an order commanding him to—with a blow. 

Grantaire just smiles ruefully, because it’s almost a joke, and it’s such a relief to hear Enjolras sounding a little bit more like himself. It’s not enough to take the pain out of what Enjolras means—evidently, that Grantaire would have the right to hurt him if he wants to, because he still thinks of himself, somehow, as being under Grantaire’s control, even as being his property. 

Still, it is unquestionably progress, and Grantaire needs to try to be happy with that. If he can. He needs to try to appreciate that Enjolras is making any progress at all, knowing how difficult it is for him. 

“Used to be just the opposite,” Grantaire says, smiling back at him, and for a moment, everything feels spectacularly normal. 

Then there is a pounding knock on the door. Enjolras’s entire body flinches away even before the booming voice speaks. 

It’s Combeferre, of course. 

“Grantaire, you have two minutes to open this door or I’m kicking it in,” he threatens. Well, not so much a threat, as he clearly absolutely means it. More of a statement of absolute fact.

There’s no more time to try to get things back to normal, then. 

“Enjolras, can I tell him?” Grantaire asks urgently. 

Enjolras freezes for another second, but then nods. Grantaire can’t tell if it’s a sincere answer, or if he’s just trying to please him. Either way, he’ll try to keep Combeferre’s curiosity from exploding too much of Enjolras’s traumatic secrets, but he may not be able to hold him at bay entirely. 

“Okay. You can go into the bedroom, if you want. If you’re not ready to see him.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispers, and flees. It’s hard to feel like that speech is any kind of a victory when he hears the door click shut behind him as Enjolras hides from the man who had been his best friend.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this chapter was MURDER even though it was the first scene I started writing of this whole fic. Apologies for it being so short, i simply could not go on.

That leaves Grantaire and Combeferre alone together, awkwardly staring at one another from across the distance of Grantaire’s living room. It is, to put matters plainly, mortifying.

Of course, Combeferre finds the courage to speak first. Grantaire has been described as many things, but few have ever accused him of being courageous.

“I hope you’re prepared to explain yourself,” Combeferre says, the edge of anger clear from the tension in his normally calm voice. Grantaire is abruptly conscious of the fact that the good doctor, for all that his role in their group has usually been to diffuse tension and foster harmony, is well over six feet tall and quite well-muscled. He also appears to be on the verge of pounding Grantaire into a pulp, which is a problem for several reasons. Grantaire is a good boxer, but might not be able to win a fight against a man who has nearly a foot of height on him. Second, he’s not sure he could bear to throw a punch at someone he wishes to consider a friend. And finally, he can only imagine how distressing the sounds of violence would be to poor Enjolras.

“Of course.” He gestures at the small table with its two chairs. “Take a seat, please.”

Combeferre is still eyeing him suspiciously, but he sits. He does not, however, look away from Grantaire. His gaze is intense and cold, and he says nothing.

It takes Grantaire a moment to find the words. “I… found Enjolras, perhaps a month ago.” The days all blend together, when he rarely leaves the flat, and every moment is consumed with worry for Enjolras. “I was drunk. I went with a companion to… to a house of ill-repute. I tried to demur. I have no fondness for love that can be bought. They offered to show me the treasure of the house. That’s when I saw…” Grantaire chokes up, unable to put into words the horror of that night. What it had done to him, to see the man he loved, the man he loves, in that place, exposed and violated in every way he can imagine.

“They had Enjolras.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, mortified to realize that he is close to tears. He hasn’t had to speak about this much—hasn’t really been able to talk about what he saw, what he experienced. He’d certainly never burden Enjolras with how he felt in that moment, the fear and revulsion and all-encompassing need to care for him.

“So you, what? Laid claim to him yourself?”

“I bought him,” Grantaire says, the very words nauseating. “I borrowed money from Pontmercy to pay them off, lest they come after him. Bless the man, but he asked no questions of me. Just gave me what I had promised them.”

Combeferre’s hands clench and unclench. Grantaire recognizes it as barely suppressed anger—many a time he has been irritating enough to goad a man into striking him. He even remembers Enjolras making the same gesture years ago, before grabbing Grantaire by the collar of his shirt, shoving him up against a wall. Grantaire had expected a blow then too, would have welcomed it, but instead Enjolras had growled at him and kissed him hard…

Grantaire shakes his head, clearing away those thoughts. “I gave them the money so they would leave us alone. I don’t know if that was the right or the wrong thing to do. I am sure there are other souls suffering. But I can think of only one thing, and that is Enjolras.”

“What have you done to him?” Combeferre demands, and Grantaire cannot meet his eyes.

He has always known he was a poor excuse for a member of the Amis, that he scarcely matched them either for passion or for virtue. But he must confess, in the privacy of his mind, that he would have thought they knew better of him than this. To be tacitly accused of taking advantage of the man he loves, and under such circumstances, must sting.

But, he reminds himself, as he must do often, his own feelings are of little importance here. What matters, the only thing that matters, is Enjolras.

“The best I could,” Grantaire says.

And then the words are flowing out of him, almost without his permission. He doesn’t mean to let all these secrets out, but he feels as though he can’t stop it. He feels guilty for dumping all of this on Combeferre, who after all hadn’t really asked to hear about _Grantaire’s_ well-being, but he also can’t help it.

“It has not been easy to determine what is right and what is wrong, when it comes to his care. He can’t always speak for himself, and sometimes when he does, what he asks for are things that, as near as I can tell, would make things worse. I try to balance having respect for what he asks with not doing him any harm. Sometimes he’s asked me to hurt him. And a lot of the time, he asks for nothing at all— _says_ nothing at all—leaving me to guess. I do the best I can, but I am imperfect. More than imperfect, I know. He would be better off with another. And yet I have been the only one here.”

“So you claim no responsibility for his current state.”

“Only in that I am certain that another person, better and wiser than I, could have done more to restore Enjolras to himself, and sooner. I have only done the best that I can, and I know how little that is.” How keenly does Grantaire feel that, after all—the certainty that, no matter how much he tries, how heavy the weight of his adoration, he will never be worthy of the love of someone like Enjolras. They simply do not exist in the same moral universe. Enjolras is as a god, clever and driven and brilliant and beautiful. And Grantaire is… a man, somewhat worse than other men.

“What, then, gives you leave to keep him here?”

“You understand me not,” Grantaire says carefully. 

“Then explain yourself.”

“I know myself for what I am, Combeferre. My list of faults is long—I do not need to add self-deception to it. I am a drunk, a failure, a lecher, a fool, an absolute wretch of a man only lightly touched by the redemptive grace which is in all men. And the name of that grace for me has only one word: Enjolras. My love for him—why deny the nature of my devotion now—my love for him is, and always has been, the best of me.”

“Then how can you bear to be a party to his degradation?”

“Because it is Enjolras I love. Not what he could do for the world, not what he stands for, not the change he makes in me. Enjolras himself. I would do anything for him. Even this.”

“He would never have wanted this.”

“I know you have no great opinion of my intelligence, doctor, but surely you think well enough of me not to imagine I do not know that. A year ago, Enjolras would have been revolted at the thought of his conduct now. He would have hated me for my part in it. And, with any luck, no doubt he will one day hate me again.”

Combeferre seems taken aback for the first time. He pulls his glasses from his nose with an elegant gesture and begins polishing them on his shirt-sleeve.

“Do you know Shakespeare well?”

He shakes his head.

“ _Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds._ I loved Enjolras the revolutionary, bold and strong and unflinching, but it was not that man that I found. I found—forgive me for saying so—Enjolras the slave, terrified and broken and hurt in every way a man can be hurt, convinced of his own inhumanity. I love him still. Not the idea of him, or the symbol of him, or the memory of him. I love Enjolras, in whatever way he exists. My admiration for him is complete. It alters not. I love him as well pissing himself from terror at night as I loved him making speeches before the adoring crowd, and I will love him just as well when he is that Enjolras again and hates me for having seen him like this. And then, when he is, when he wishes me to do so, I will bid him farewell forever. I expect no forgiveness for my part in this. Not from you, and certainly not for him. But that is not what he needs, not now. And so I must give my love what he needs.”

Combeferre is quiet for a long time. When he speaks, he says, “You are stronger than I thought, Grantaire.”

“I have had to be. He needs me now.”

“I cannot hide my doubts, though. I see the wisdom, of giving him what he needs a this moment, but where does it end? With you taking him to your bed, because it is what would soothe him in his trained way of thinking?”

For the first time, Grantaire shows a little anger. “I did not realize you held me in quite so much despite.”

“Anyone might be tempted. Especially if it seemed to his benefit…”

“You need not fear for Enjolras’ virtue. I am incapable of doing him thus much harm.”

“A month agoyou no doubt would have believed yourself incapable of giving him orders or—“

“You do not understand. I consider it no slight to my manliness to tell you that I am _incapable._ I could not rouse myself to use him in that wise even when I thought his safety and freedom, his very life, depended upon it. I cannot do it now when he begs me, as he does, day and night. If I truly thought it might ease him, perhaps I would—but I _can_ not. My body saves me from making the choice. I do not know if I could make the right one. I do not even know what the right one would be.”

Combeferre draws himself up to his full height—something he rarely does, knowing how intimidating his nearly seven-foot stature can be. “I have wronged you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire shrugs. Not disagreeing, perhaps, but saying it does not matter.

“You have done what I think few men could do.”

“I have done what needed to be done, old friend. No more and no less.”

“I could not do it,” Combeferre confesses, the words bitter on his tongue. “Not for Enjolras. Not for anyone.”

“Please,” Grantaire scoffs.“Anyone would do what I have done if they were so called upon.”

“No,” Combeferre insists. “Hear me. I _could not._ If I had the ill luck to find him—more importantly, if it were his ill luck to be found by me—I’d be trying to force him back to what the was. I wouldn’t be able to bear… everything you’ve had to try to bear. Everything you _have_ borne, for his sake.”

“The weight of the world is light, if I bear it for my love’s sake.”

Combeferre allows himself a small smile. “Shakespeare again?”

Grantaire shakes his head slightly. “No. Just the truth.”


End file.
